


To the Victor, Goes the Spoils

by Dexterous_Sinistrous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Spartacus (TV) Fusion, Character Death, Gladiator Derek Hale, Healing, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slave Stiles Stilinski, Violence, Warning: Kate Argent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-08-10 23:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20143564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dexterous_Sinistrous/pseuds/Dexterous_Sinistrous
Summary: If your gods believe you worthy of such justice, where are they?He knew there were still bruises on his neck, though he was thankful Derek did not look at them.“The gods seldom answer my prayers as well,” Derek replied. He reached his hand up to  brush one of Stiles’ tears away with the back of his fingers. His touch lingered when Stiles closed his eyes and pressed into the gesture.“I dare say, your presence here is a greater comfort than a god’s answer,” Stiles replied.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Meg! HA. I bet you didn't guess it--I don't care if you say you did, because you DIDN'T.
> 
> There are Latin and Greek words used throughout this fic. They are pretty obvious ones if you are used to watching Spartacus and/or ROME. If the dialogue is in English but meant to be in another language, it will be italicized. I don't know Greco-Roman era Germanic ... (sorry, my dead languages are limited to Latin, Attic Greek, and Anglo-Saxon).
> 
> Quick reference:  
dominus/domina is the master of the villa (Gerard is referred to as Dominus throughout a majority of the fic)  
ludus is a specific name for a villa, referring to the fact that the house is dedicated to training gladiators  
doctore is a title of the training gladiator in a ludus  
medicus is a healer  
Germanic people were considered to be barbaric by Greeks and Romans, and often times were ridiculed for the closeness of tribes/families (aka, Romans believed them incestuous)

Derek was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to return to his room and slip into sleep. Kate had been much more demanding of him, this night in particular.

"Try not to die tomorrow," Kate sighed as she turned onto her side, eyes watching Derek. "It would be inconvenient to train another cock."

Derek remained silent as he finished tying his subligaria, hesitantly waiting for Kate to dismiss him. He had forgotten the first night she had finished with him, only for Kate to find a reason for him to be punished for not listening to her. He remembered her coming into the medicus’ quarters after his lashings, her hands pressing down on the bandages as a reminder for Derek to heed her every word, like they were gospel from the gods.

Kate slid off the side of the bed, lightly stretching as she stepped towards Derek. Her robes had fallen open, decorative jewels and metal adornments wrapped around her body to accent her waist. Her breasts slipped out of the sheer fabric, slightly heaving in faint memory of earlier as she fell away from her stretches.

Kate was beautiful—despite the monster she hid beneath those looks. And no one knew that better than Derek.

Derek kept his gaze downcast, away from Kate.

"I know of a little wager Harris is making with my father," Kate started, her hands tracing the parted hems of her robes as her eyes evaluated Derek. "That mongrel made a bet with his whore of a wife," she sighed in displeasure. "If you win, he'll grant you his body slave."

Derek didn't flinch when Kate's hand gripped his chin, turning his face and eyes towards her. He had grown accustomed to Kate moving him whichever way pleased her most—like a doll for a spoiled child.

Kate's nail scraped along Derek's jaw as she leaned in, her breath tickling Derek's ear as she spoke, "Fuck him, and I'll have your cock removed, understand?" Her hand aggressively grabbed at Derek through his subligaria. 

"Yes, domina," Derek roughly answered.

"Good boy," Kate replied, her hand releasing his chin as she tapped his cheek. Her other hand lingered on Derek's cock before pulling away. "Get back to your hole, my husband will be back soon."

Derek left as soon as the command departed Kate's lips. Part of him wondered if she sought to weaken him this night, make him tired for the fight tomorrow. He knew that he was meant to win, hearing whispers coming from the house slaves about the dominus being displeased with Doctore’s insubordination. And now Kate's admission of wagers and bets being struck only confirmed Derek's suspicions.

Doctore had been a loyal slave to the Argent house. He brought fame and coin with every arena battle he won. He faced and survived numerous threats—and his return to the arena now would only bring more of a spectacle to generate coin for their dominus’ purse.

Though something recently had lead Doctore to act out. He had been afforded luxuries other could only dream of obtaining as a gladiator. Everything changed the night he performed for the dominus' son.

Chris, a Roman senator and only son of their dominus, graced the villa with his presence a month ago. There was much celebration for the return of such a man to the small city of Capua. The gladiators, bathed and oiled, had been brought up to the villa's main floor to be placed on display. House slaves dressed in such finery to flaunt the Argent wealth and luxuries.

Derek had counted himself lucky that night when he saw Kate's husband had accompanied Chris back to the villa. It meant Kate would have no time to torture Derek.

Marcus was a senator, like Chris, and had very little time or concern for Kate after the first year of their marriage produced no heir.

Marcus left Capua—and Kate—behind to pursue his career in the Roman Senate, alongside Chris.

That was when Kate took a liking to Derek.

Any night Marcus returned to the villa was a blessing for Derek. It was as if the gods took pity on him.

Derek recalled the first time Marcus returned from Rome, and Kate's initial dismissal of him. He had been so hopeful it was the end of things—that Marcus would take Kate with him when he left for Rome again. Instead, that night was only a different torture for him—another force performance for the guests.

And Derek was not the only one chosen to perform. Doctore had been escorted, for the first time since assuming his mantle, to a secluded room. The room itself had been reserved for Chris’ privacy, and it became clear what was taking place when a pleasure slave had been chosen to enter through the curtain after them.

Harris's personal body slave.

Derek was unfortunate enough to meet Harris a number of times during the pleasure parties Gerard hosted. Harris was in attendance the first time Derek had been forced to  _ perform _ , much to Kate’s annoyance. Kate didn’t like people touching things that belonged to her—she wanted to degrade Derek on her own terms and mostly in the secluded privacy of her bedroom.

Harris was as despicable a man as Kate was vile, even if the latter truly detested the former. He was a social climber, and strove to have the attention of the Agents. He wanted the connection and the prestige that came with it. He was willing to trade anything—and anyone—to get the connections he desired.

That night, after Derek had been awarded the chance to bathe, he had seen Doctore in his private rooms. He paused for a moment, seeing the older man furiously pacing as he spoke in a foreign tongue to himself. He moved quickly back to his own room when he heard the sound of breaking pottery, having thrown his own fair shares of wine jugs after his encounters with Kate. He had never before seen the man in such a rage, knowing it must have been something to do with the night’s events.

Faint chatter pulled Derek from his thoughts as he walked towards the slave entrance that lead down to the cellar. He paused his steps, taking a step to the side in order to look out the entryway at the voices’ owners.

He caught sight of the back of the dominus’ lounging form as the man overlooked the guest.

Harris.

Derek never wanted to linger in the Argent villa, and tonight was no different, knowing that the house slaves would grow scared of him and run to the first guard they found should he linger.

But he did linger.

Derek paused by the doorway, hiding behind the billowing curtain. He knew the house slave that was meant to bring him back downstairs would come looking for him eventually, but he couldn’t stop himself from observing the exchange that was happening before him.

The body slave beside Harris was young—barely reaching the cusp of manhood. He was a little shorter than Harris, his head bent to stare at the floor, as was the custom for slaves. His skin was pale, speckled with moles that almost begged to be traced and connected. He wore a short, decorative robe that barely covered him and left little to imagination—the only thing holding the robe together was a small circular pendant that looped the material through it, settled against his stomach. The collar around the slave’s neck was ornate for a slave, even a body slave. It suggested that he was considered of great importance—and the great  _ value _ he brought to his dominus.

The slave didn’t flinch when Harris’ fingers grabbed the circular pendant, no doubt used to the action by now as the man pulled it free, yanking it from the material completely. The silky robe fluttered from the slave’s body, cascading down into a clump on the floor, leaving the boy naked before the dominus. He didn’t move, his eyes still fixed on the ground.

“I’d like to see your eyes, slave. Look up,” Dominus instructed. It wasn’t a suggestion, but a command.

The boy looked up. His eyes were large and doe like, with the color of honeyed amber, unlike anything Derek had seen before. A liquid fire was duly present—nearly stamped out, no doubt by his harsh treatment. They were as gorgeous as their owner.

And those eyes were looking passed the dominus and at Derek.

Derek recognized the slave from weeks ago—the slave Chris had allowed Doctore to see in private. The others had grumbled in envy, knowing that as the Doctore, John had rights and opportunities that the other gladiators dreamed of having. But they still appreciated the view of the slave from their spots across the atrium.

Derek was among the ones that envied Doctore for having time alone with the slave. But he also knew first hand that performing for the Romans was not as glamorous as it seemed. He hated every moment of performing for them, trying to take care of the house slave beneath him—usually a virgin, if the Romans had their way—while carrying out every demand the Romans had. He had only performed three times, but every time was worse than the last, Kate growing jealous, accusing him of enjoying.

He hated it all.

Doctore didn’t talk about his experience performing for Chris, his anger that Derek oversaw that night was the only hint of what transpired. It came as no surprise, for he rarely talked about anything, leaving himself a mystery for the men he trained and mentored. Older gladiators knew that Doctore had been transferred to the Argent ludus from the pits, having been cast out by another Roman household.

It was also known that he once had a wife and child, both taken from him by the Romans.

“Kneel.”

The pleasure slave lowered himself to his knees, following the older man’s order. He was obedient and quick in his movements. He pressed the backs of his thighs against his heels as he turned his attention from Derek back to the dominus.

“He has a beautiful mouth.” The dominus ran his thumb over the body slave’s bottom lip, pressing the tip of his thumb into the slave’s mouth with little resistance. He was testing the waters.

“He’s been trained to give pleasure at both ends,” Harris informed the dominus.

The dominus released a sound of agreement, pleased at that knowledge. “This  _ gift _ —it’s for the  _ whole  _ night?”

“If you guarantee the barbarian wins tomorrow,” Harris started. “You can fuck the boy all night—he can take it.”

The body slave made a slight whimper when the dominus pressed almost too far back, tickling the back of his throat. But the whimper sounded like a protest—not to the dominus’ actions, but to the deal being struck before him.

“If the boy is as good as the others claim, that shouldn’t be an issue,” Dominus answered. “But if the dog wins tomorrow, I’ll be out a Doctore,” he noted, as if it was enough of a reason to care that he’d lose at least one slave tomorrow.

“It takes care of a rebelling slave problem for you,” Harris mused. He seemed hesitant to voice his next words. “My wife would find it …  _ amusing _ , if the dog fucked him after winning,” Harris uttered, not at all sounding pleased by it.

Dominus cruelly laughed. “That’s a harsh punishment for this one. My dog is quite an animal—both of my Germanic warriors are, actually.”

Derek felt like a coward. He knew it would only be worse for both of them if he tried to intervene.

“Derek,” a soft voice harshly spoke his name.

Derek turned his head to look at the owner, realizing it was Kira, Kate’s personal hand slave.

Kira waved at Derek to follow her.

Derek hesitated, looking back to see what would happen to the body slave.

“I think that is a deal I could live with,” Dominus agreed to as he stood up, his hand grabbing at the body slave’s collar. “You do the house of Argent a great service—one that deserves ample reward.” He dragged the boy to his feet, ignoring the soft whimper the gesture caused.

“I’ll retrieve him in the morning, then,” Harris nodded with a smile.

“And join us for the games,” Dominus concluded.

Kira grabbed Derek’s arm, yanking on him in order to get him to follow after her. “Derek, please,” she harshly whispered. “If we’re seen, there will be ample punishment—for us both.”

Derek finally moved with Kira’s words prompting him. He followed after her, his head turning back for one last glimpse, only to see the slave being lead off to where the Dominus’ personal rooms were.

And with every step, Derek hated himself all the more for walking away.

~*~

“You look weary,” Laura commented when Derek returned.

Derek sank down onto the cot, shaking his head.

“Derek—”

“Don’t,” Derek tiredly begged, looking up at his sister. “I can’t speak of it, Laura. So please, don’t ask.”

Laura was silent as she set her wine cup down, walking towards Derek. She sank down onto the cot next to Derek, draping her arm across Derek’s shoulders. She rubbed her hand in a circle along Derek’s shoulder blades. She softly hummed the lullaby their mother once sang to them—the one she sang to all her children.

The tension in Derek’s shoulders loosened, his body hunched. He eased himself down to rest his head in Laura’s lap, wrapping his arm around Laura’s knees as he closed his eyes.

Laura rubbed her hand up and down Derek’s back, a comforting gesture to accompany her soft tune. She ran her fingertips through the short locks of Derek’s hair, her anger and bitterness growing with the memory of Kate having Derek’s braids cut and beard shaved after she first took a liking to him.

_ You look like a fucking animal _ .

Derek fell asleep with the comfort of Laura’s words singing in their native tongue, his thoughts drifting to a time before the Romans—of a home far away and without Rome’s wartorn terrors. His last thoughts before sleep took him were of eyes a deep amber, color mirroring the sands of the arena.

~*~

Before each arena battle, Dominus granted his gladiators a morning of peace. The higher ranked gladiator were permitted ample requests for whatever their purses could purchase.

Some purchased the company of whores. Others purchased food.

Derek had been surprised when he saw the jewelry in his sisters hands. He caught a glimpse of the fine necklace before she could cover it up.

"Shut up," Laura snapped at Derek when he arched an eyebrow at her in question. She moved to hide the necklace between the woven material of her cot, securing it tightly.

"You never cared for jewelry," Derek simply replied, as if that was enough to question Laura's purchase.

"Doesn't matter," Laura huffed. "Drop it."

Derek stopped speaking of it, turning their conversation towards other things. He wasn't surprised when Kira came into their room, carrying a tray of various foods and drink.

It was tradition, in the Hale tribe, to partake in ceremonial feasts before a battle. And Derek was sentimental enough to try and recreate that. It was the one time they both could have foods close to their tribe's—a moment to remember better days.

Kira always lingered with the Hale siblings after bringing the food. She would sit beside Laura on the bed as she informed them of all the happenings upstairs.

"The rumor is that Harris's pleasure slave is Doctore's lover," Kira finally divulged.

Laura looked at Derek. "That would explain his anger," she noted.

Derek frowned some. "I suppose it's possible."

"Doctore was Harris's slave for a time," Kira added. "He came here after being sentenced to the Pits for attacking Harris."

Laura looked impressed. "Looks like we aren't the only rebellious ones."

"Anyone would be furious if his lover was a pleasure slave," Derek sharply replied.

"Do you fancy him?" Laura teased.

Derek threw a piece of bread at her in annoyance, unsurprised when she caught it before eating it.

As the arena battle drew closer, Kira made her move to leave.

"I wish you luck," Kira told them as she gathered the tray. "May the gods favor you both … and send you back to us," she added.

Derek caught the way Kira's gaze lingered on Laura before she turned to depart.

~*~

John remained silent when Harris stood before his cell.

“Nothing to say after all this time,” Harris chided him.

John looked up at the man, a murderous glare knitting his brow together.

“Come now,” Harris began. “He’s no longer a boy anymore, can’t be mad about that. Had to find something for that mouth to do, and do well I might add.”

John’s hands balled into fists, his knuckles turning white against his thighs.

“You’ll not win this fight,” Harris concluded. “I thought you should know, after that animal kills you—he’ll be fucking your son, with your blood on his hands.” He looked down at John. “Jennifer thought it was a fitting final punishment for you.”

Harris turned from the cell’s bars, making his way back towards the exit that would bring him into the arena’s pulvinus.

“Harris,” John’s voice called the man back. He was standing now, pressed against the bars as he lowly threatened, “Before I die, I  _ will  _ look into your lifeless eyes, and know that vengeance was mine—and justice was my son’s.”

~*~

“Something’s wrong,” Laura commented as she leaned against the bars before them. She watched as Doctore shuffled to the side.

Derek turned his head to look out of the bars and onto the arena. He knew Laura was right—the man  _ was _ favoring his side, something he trained the gladiators to do in light of injury.

“Foul play?” Laura asked Derek’s opinion.

“Harris wants him dead for some reason,” Derek answered, turning his eyes towards the balcony. He was happy that Chris had returned from Rome for this spectacle—the fighters were more likely to receive the gift of pardon than execution for losing their matches.

“Harris? That weasel of a Roman?” Laura scoffed.

Once, during one of the Argents’ parties, Laura headbutted one of Harris’ guards when the man attempted to grab her ass, causing blood to spray over a few noble Romans. She was smugly proud of herself, smiling even through the lashings she received.

“How do you know that?” Laura inquired as she turned her gaze away from Doctore and towards Derek.

“Last night,” Derek answered, his eyes still lingering on the balcony as he caught sight of the body slave sitting in Harris’ lap. “Dominus accepted payment to guarantee that the  _ dog  _ wins today.”

“He means you,” Laura uttered in understanding.

“Why else would they pair Doctore off with two seasoned fighters before me, while I face no one else?” Derek replied.

“They couldn’t even cheat fairly,” Laura stated in disgust.

“He hasn’t been hit significantly enough to be favoring his side like that,” Derek added.

“Why bother injuring him more than necessary?” Laura questioned.

“To make him suffer,” Derek answered. “Apparently, Doctore displeased Dominus in some way.”

“Are you going to fight him?” Laura finally asked, not at all surprised that Doctore won, even in the state he was in.

“If I don’t, we both might be executed for disrespecting the Argent household,” Derek replied, moving to grab the helmet from the guard.

“You can’t kill him,” Laura countered. “It’s not right.”

“Nothing about our lives is right,” Derek gruffly answered as he moved to enter the arena.

The stands began to stamp and cheer—a roar of Derek’s title flowed through the spectators in waves.

_ Wolf _ .

Derek was thankful for his helmet, knowing that Kate couldn’t tell that he wasn’t looking at her as she had bid him do. His eyes lingered on the body slave sitting in Harris’ lap.

The body slave was terrified, struggling to move forward, despite Harris’ tight grip on the collar fastened around his neck. He accidentally forced himself to choke against the collar, wanting to get closer, leaning farther than Harris was permitting.

“I don’t know who he is,” Derek started, loud enough that John could hear him. “But you’re a great deal of importance to him. I can’t help but think he’s a great deal of importance to you as well.”

“And you’ll have the honor of separating us,” John bitterly snapped back at Derek.

“No,” Derek argued, turning to look at John when Chris signaled for them to begin. “Dominus rigged the fight against you—”

“What gave it away?” John sarcastically questioned. He offered an easily parried swing, nothing a well practiced gladiator couldn’t avoid.

“Harris wants you dead,” Derek stated after he returned a similar swing of his sword. “He came to the villa last night to speak with Dominus—he brought that body slave with him.” He caught the way John staggered some at the mention of the slave. He easily dodged out of John’s range of motion, making their fight appear flashy enough to please the crowd. “I’m sorry, but he gave him as payment for guarantee of your death.”

“What?” John’s entire guard was down, a furious expression covering his features.

“Harris gave him to the dominus for the night, as payment,” Derek repeated.

John’s gaze left Derek, turning to look at the pulvinus—at the body slave obediently standing beside Harris.

There were tears in the boy’s eyes as he tried to fight the harsh press of the metal collar clamping down against his throat. He struggled with focusing on his breathing, terrified of the fight’s outcome more than Harris’ anger at his behavior.

“Why does your wolf not draw blood?” Harris questioned.

Chris looked at Harris, turning a calculating gaze to Gerard.

“The wolf will do as bid,” Gerard simply answered.

Harris curled his hand around the collar, choking Stiles.

John cursed in his native tongue, the venom in his tone was enough to translate his anger and hatred for Harris and their dominus.

Derek imagined that he would feel much the same if he discovered that his lover was being passed around for the amusement of others.

“How do you fare?” Derek inquired, pressing for more information on John’s state.

“If I cannot have that fucking snake’s life, then end me now,” John angrily stated.

"I won't kill you," Derek answered.

"You think me a fool," John replied. "Neither of us have a choice, wolf. One will lose."

Derek's eyebrows furrowed. "Not if the senator grants mercy."

John looked surprised by Derek's words. "Is this sentiment for your doctore?"

Derek shook his head. "It's respect."

John softly chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief.

~*~

Harris was furious when Chris allowed John to live. He yanked on his slave's collar especially hard when he departed, his gaze watching as Derek escorted John towards the arena’s inner cells. He was angry with Gerard's noncommittal acceptance of Chris' choice to spare the old man.

Derek helped John into his cell, moving out of the way of the medicus. He returned to his original cell when the soldiers ushered him out. He was relieved when John offered him a gesture of thanks.

Derek sluggishly removed the armor, ready to be free from unnecessary weight. He was thankful for Laura's help as she unfastened the leather straps of the armor across his back.

"How did you manage to convince Doctore to yield?" Laura asked in their native tongue, determined to avoid eavesdroppers.

"He saw reason when he realized he couldn't win," Derek replied, his posture sullen and curved—a stance of exhaustion.

"Argent will be pleased he has you both still," Laura answered.

"Perhaps," was all Derek replied.

Laura looked at Derek when he turned to face her. She reached her hand up, placing it on his neck to ground him. She pressed their foreheads together as they stole a quiet moment to breathe easily.

Laura had always been able to adjust to the pain and torment quicker than Derek. She was the natural leader, trained by their mother to assume the mantle of tribal leader in the years to come.

Physical affection between family was a constant comfort in Germanic tribes, it was something that grounded warriors in the most trying of times. Even that was warped by the Romans to mean the most disgusting of perversions—declaring Derek and Laura to be incestuous for their affections.

But that changed with the arrival of the Romans.

Derek pulled away from Laura when he heard the sound of approaching steps. He took a step closer, seeing Harris and the body slave outside the bars of the medicus—where John was.

John stood abruptly, ignoring the pain in his side as he hobbled towards the cell’s bars once he saw the young man. “υἱός!”

The body slave turned from Harris, taking a quick abortive step towards the cell when he saw John.

“Stiles!” Harris snapped at him, wrapping his hand around Stiles’ collar in order to yank him away from the cell.

Stiles made a soft noise of protest, being pulled away from John’s cell and towards the other.

“You’ll pay for that indiscretion later,” Harris harshly threatened.

Stiles kept his head turned towards the cell that held John, his eyes trying to keep sight of the older man despite being pulled into another room.

“Ah, champion,” Harris noted upon entering the large cell’s space. He looked at the gladiator, noting the man’s stature.

Stiles turned his head back towards where John’s cell was.

“Not a true champion,” Derek replied, his eyes looking towards Stiles. “But I suppose I’m humbled by such words.”

“You did well in the fight, though had a less than ideal outcome,” Harris noted. He turned his gaze towards Stiles, his grip yanking Stiles forward.

Stiles stumbled, his sight finally turning towards Derek.

“There was a deal struck, before the fight was planned,” Harris began explaining. “To the victor goes the spoils,” he partially laughed in contempt as he gestured towards Stiles.

Derek’s expression grew solemn, his brow furrowed as he looked over Stiles.

“Typically, Stiles is reserved for … higher stalk,” Harris stated in distaste. “But my wife made a stake, and you happen to make that stake’s wager a reality. So here are the fruits of that labor.”

Stiles turned his head to the side, eyes looking back at the door they entered.

“Apologies,” Derek started. “I’m not fit for such a reward.”

Stiles looked surprised by Derek’s words, looking to Harris for an explanation.

“I don’t think you fucking understood,” Harris harshly snapped. “You’re being granted something only noble Romans have chance to partake in.”

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I did not technically beat Doctore,” Derek reasoned.

“I don’t care,” Harris snapped. “You’ll fuck him because I told you to.”

Laura growled under her breath, standing to her full height.

“I am a gladiator,” Derek firmly answered, gesturing a hand back to Laura for her to remain silent. “I perform when my dominus commands me to. Not in the arena’s cells while he is absent.”

“I believe Derek speaks the truth,” Kate’s voice cut through the moment, her steps swift and with purpose. “He’s an obedient slave, in that respect,” she added with a twisted smile.

“Domina,” Derek addressed Kate.

Kates presence did nothing to ease Laura’s heckles.

Harris looked at Kate, furiously speaking, “I had an agreement with your father.”

“It looks to me like my father’s doctore is still alive,” Kate annoying countered, her eyes looking to John. “I believe he was meant to be dead when my wolf fucked your little trinket.”

Stiles startled at that revelation, his body shaking as his mind began to shut down.

“Seeing as that is not the case, there is no deal to be had,” Kate concluded.

“How dare you—”

“Have I stumbled upon a fight below the arena?” A loud voice announce the presence of another.

Derek looked down to the ground when he realized it was none other than Chris and Marcus who had joined them.

“Husband,” Kate started, a sickly sweet smile on her face when she saw the lingering look Marcus gave Stiles.

“Wife,” Marcus called back, slowly turning his attention to Kate.

Kate turned her attention to her brother, annoyed with her husband. “You’ve come to see our champion?”

Chris briefly looked at Derek. “Well fought,” he commented.

“Great thanks,” Derek dutifully replied.

Chris looked from Stiles to Harris. "As far as further entertainment, I don't think it is an appropriate time for such a spectacle." he seemed pleased with Harris' reluctant acceptance.

"It'd be a shame to pass up an opportunity like this though," Marcus commented. "I've heard things about Harris' little slave," he explained to Chris. He laughed at Chris' exasperation. "Come, we'll celebrate the victories tonight at the villa," he clasped a pleased hand against Chris' shoulder.

Kate lingered, a glare on Harris as the man pulled Stiles with him. She turned her attention towards Derek, ignoring Laura's presence entirely. "You did well, telling Harris you wouldn't fuck without permission."

Derek remained silent.

"Keep it that way," Kate slowly threatened, the repercussion lingering unspoken in her words.

Laura glowered at Kate as she left the cell behind.

~*~

Derek was with Laura when Kira entered their cell. He looked at the young woman, knowing something was wrong from her sullen features.

"Dominus has requested you," Kira explained to Derek, her voice tinged with sadness.

"Why?" Laura demanded as Derek remained beside her.

"The Roman Senators have asked to see you," Kira explained.

Laura looked at Derek when she felt Derek rise from the cot. "No," she sternly protested. "You are not going," she commanded Derek, grabbing his arm.

"I must," Derek replied. "If I don't go up there, the punishment will be much more severe than Kate's tantrums."

Laura frowned, but she knew Derek was right. "Be careful," she softly uttered.

Derek nodded as he turned to follow Kira upstairs. He was silent as he trailed behind Kira, frowning some when they came to a stop just outside the underground cell gates that lead up into the villa.

Kira turned to look at Derek. “Harris is here,” she warned Derek. “With his personal body slave.”

Derek’s expression darkened some. “Harris didn’t get his way in the arena, so he’ll try tonight.”

Kira frowned. “He’s kind—the slave, I mean,” she elaborated. “I spoke to him for a few moments when they left him with us.”

Derek looked uncertain about what Kira was saying.

“He said that Harris and dominus Marcus were going to request that you perform with him,” Kira finally stated, rushing the words out. “He wants you to know that he’s sorry you both have to do this—but that there isn’t another he would rather lay with than you.”

Derek couldn’t find his voice, silently nodding for Kira’s benefit of knowing he understood her message.

Kira nodded back, turning to open the gate in order to lead Derek upstairs into the villa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come very soon!!!
> 
> υἱός means 'son'
> 
> A side note: In Germanic culture, rape was punished with death--via hung and/or tied up and then thrown in a bog. Derek has more serious reactions to the rape/non-con in general later in the fic as well, so there is much talk and feelings about the sad and terrible things that happen in this fic; (Blame Meagan)


	2. Chapter 2

Derek stood with a straightened posture as he kept his shoulders back, his arms uselessly limp by his sides. He was waiting to be told what to do as the Romans inspected him. His gaze wandered over the others before his eyes landed on the body slave standing beside Harris.

“You think he’ll be champion soon?” One of the senators questioned.

“Very likely,” Dominus stated as he took a wine goblet from Kira. “He’s a born fighter. He has a bit more finesse than his sister, that’s for certain.”

“You purchased them as a pair, didn’t you?” Marcus inquired, sitting up as he gestured for Kira to fill his goblet.

“I did,” Dominus answered, his gaze turning to Derek. “He was much more wild looking then. I’ve always found Germanic slaves to be rougher—more difficult to train. But Derek showed promise from the beginning. His sister was a little worse.”

“I heard he’s truly an animal in the arena,” the senator’s wife softly noted. “We haven’t been able to see him fight yet,” she pointedly looked to her husband.

“We haven’t,” her husband thoughtfully echoed. “Perhaps a display would please that curiosity.”

“I think having that in the villa would be a little too much of a spectacle,” Chris’ voice finally spoke up.

“I’m afraid my son is right in that matter,” Dominus stated.

“He’s performed in other ways, hasn’t he?” Jennifer finally spoke. She lightly ran her fingers through her loose curls, turning a sly smile towards Kate. “Wouldn’t that be something easy to arrange?”

A muscle in Kate’s jaw ticked in annoyance. “We’re not a pleasure house, like some,” she artfully replied.

“We are a house of spectacle, Katherine,” Dominus sternly stated, covering Kate’s answer to offer possibility. “And certain spectacles can be arranged for honored guests.”

Derek struggled with preventing his hands from tightening into a fist. He knew what happened next.

The senator’s wife shifted her weight on the couch some, a smile pulling on her lips as she looked at her husband. A silent questioning of whether he would grant her such a spectacle.

“It would be quite a rare scene to witness,” the senator pressed, looking from Chris to Dominus.

“It’s something,” Dominus answered. He looked at Derek. “Are you fit to perform, Derek?”

Derek drew in a steady breath, keeping his body still and his gaze directed into the open distance—a statue for them to gaze at. “I am prepared to do as you command, Dominus,” he recited the words he knew would please Gerard, and prevent Kate from laying blame at his feet.

A giggle bubbled up from the senator’s wife as she looked at her husband, pleased with the unfolding of events.

“Have him fuck this one,” Marcus gestured towards Kira. “It will be a fine feast of the eyes.”

Kira stiffened, worried eyes flickering from Derek towards Kate and Gerard.

“Apologies,” Dominus surprisingly broke the silence. “Kira is Kate’s personal body slave. She’s tied to a vow of chastity—you understand my reservations in that respect.”

Derek heard the truth in Gerard’s words—virgins were commodities saved for selfish pleasures.

Jennifer reached across Harris, her fingers slipping around Stiles’ collar. She had to barely pull on it to usher Stiles forward. “Stiles, on the other hand, is quite good at being fucked,” she simply stated, a smile on her lips as Kate glared at her.

“Oh, please,” the senator’s wife asked of Jennifer and Harris. “We’ve all heard of the different pleasures he brings. More than one senator has mentioned it since returning to Rome,” she smiled at her husband. “It would be very entertaining to witness such a match.”

Dominus appeared to be calculating the benefit of allowing Derek the honor of having something meant for Roman citizens. He wondered if the animal would even know what to do with the gift once it was given. He also wondered if Stiles would break under such a beast. “How much prep would it take?”

“He’s not difficult to prep at all,” Jennifer answered. “In fact, he should already be.” She reached her hand out to slip beneath the short robes covering Stiles. “Aren’t you, Stiles?”

Stiles barely flinched when Jennifer slipped a finger between his ass cheeks, pressing passed his rim with ease. “Yes, domina,” he softly spoke, unsure if his voice would waver. He had grown accustomed to Jennifer being rougher than Harris.

Jennifer released a smug sound of approval, her gaze looking at Kate as she pushed Stiles towards Derek.

Kate was murderously glaring at Jennifer when Gerard announced his approval of the suggestion.

“What do you say to that honor, Derek?” Dominus inquired as he looked at Derek.

Derek looked at Stiles, answering, “An honor granted by you, dominus.”

“Good boy,” Dominus laughed. “There’s something about a dog, no matter how wild it is, that it’s always eager to please.”

The other Romans laughed together with Gerard.

Stiles appeared unaffected by the laughter of their captors mocking their fates. He had grown too accustomed to it.

“Stiles, take off his subligaria,” Harris half ordered, uncaring for the looks Kate gave him and his wife.

Stiles took a step closer to Derek, reaching his hands out to touch the tied and folded fabric of Derek’s subligaria. His hands were steady, surprisingly himself. He looked up at Derek, taking in the closeness of their bodies.

Stiles spoke in the softest voice, one that was lost to the Romans under their boisterous laughs and idle conversation. Only, it was Germanic. “ _ I’m sorry. _ ”

Since his capture, Derek hadn’t heard his native tongue spoken by someone other than Laura, and once as a curse on the lips of Doctore directed at both Hale siblings.

“Don’t be shy,” Jennifer chided Stiles.

The faint nod of Derek’s head signalled Stiles to continue with removing his subligaria.

Stiles pulled the material the rest of the way off Derek’s body, leaving the gladiator naked as he dropped the cloth to the side to be forgotten for now.

The senator’s wife made a soft sound of giddiness at being able to see a naked gladiator up close for her own amusements. “Is it true that you use Germanians for breeding?”

Kate rolled her eyes in annoyance. “That’s Gauls,” she boringly corrected the woman. “He’s not a pleasure slave, or a breeding house slave. He’s a gladiator.”

“We’ve used gladiators for breeding purposes before—and Derek may be moved to that purpose eventually,” Dominus stated.

Derek hated them even more for their callousness—their cruel aptitude for planning out uses for humans as if they were objects.

Stiles took hold of the broach holding his robes together, slipping the needle out of the decorative piece. He allowed his robes to slip off his shoulders, the material billowing down to the ground at their feet. He turned to drop the broach to the side, out of the way.

Derek took a step closer to Stiles, the first sign of reaction he displayed all night. He wrapped his arms around Stiles’ waist, his hands barely ghosting over Stiles’ bare skin.

“Touch him,” Marcus instructed, as if both Stiles and Derek were inept at the task before them.

“Turn him around so we can see him,” the senator spoke for the first time since they started.

Derek placed his hands on Stiles, turning and guiding his body to face the Romans. He pulled Stiles back against his chest, his cock pressing against the curve of Stiles’ ass.

“ _ I’m sorry too. _ ”

Derek spoke the words against Stiles’ ear, soft and sweet—almost as a lover would. He hoped none of the Romans would notice their exchange.

Stiles reached his hand back, gently touching Derek’s hip as he leaned back into Derek. He hoped it was enough to tell Derek the truth.

In another time, and another place.

Derek pressed the faintest of kisses against the curve of Stiles’ neck, hidden behind Stiles’ shoulder.

“When you’re finally fucking him, have him on top,” Jennifer instructed Derek. “I haven’t seen him take one that way for long,” she commented with a sadistic smile.

It was Stiles’ hand on his hip that stopped Derek from freezing up—from retaliating.

It would have been so much worse if they stopped.

~*~

Derek furiously scrubbed his skin, anger winding tightly in his chest as he thought about the smiles of the Romans watching them. He remembered the soft noises Stiles made as they moved together, part of him hoping that Stiles felt little pain.

Derek released an aggravated sigh, tossing aside the rag he had been using to clean himself. He was surprised when Stiles entered the room, following closely behind Kira.

“Dominus’ son expressed his consent for you both to be cleaned,” Kira uttered, as if Derek needed the explanation to know why Stiles was suddenly allowed alone with him. “He wished for you to have a moment of reprieve.”

Stiles softly thanked Kira when she handed him a soft linen for drying. He waited for her to depart before he looked at Derek. “Is this alright?”

Derek was surprised by Stiles’ question, and his apparent concern for Derek’s comfort. “I don’t mind,” he partially grunted. He turned his back to Stiles to allow him some privacy. He could hear Stiles descending into the bath, the water rippling with his actions.

They cleaned themselves in silence, neither one sure what to say through the awkward tension.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles finally stated.

Derek dared to turn around to face Stiles. He was surprised to see that they were closer than he originally thought. “You have nothing to be sorry about,” he answered.

Stiles shook his head. “Harris did this because of me,” he explained.

Derek’s frown deepened.

“I’m sorry that it had to be me,” Stiles specified as he pressed on. “I’m usually requested by Romans who find me attractive, so the issue of desire is at least one sided.”

“That’s not the issue,” Derek replied. He had always preferred men, it was just how his desires manifested.

Stiles looked surprised by Derek’s words.

“The absence of your consent was what I took issue with,” Derek explained.

Stiles was silent for a moment before he replied, “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I found myself happy that it was you.” He shook his head. “It sounds as if I don’t care for you being forced into it. I just meant … you were kind.”

Derek didn’t feel better with Stiles’ words. He frowned as he spoke, “I still regret what happened, because of who you are to Doctore.”

Stiles was looking at Derek, his brow furrowed as he tried to follow Derek’s words.

“If he knew I touched you,” Derek started, a heavy sigh leaving him. “He would find it irredeemable.”

“I believe what I said before,” Stiles replied. “Neither one of us had a choice in this, but you were kind in your treatment of me.” He drew in a steady breath. “I believe my father would understand that.”

Derek looked up at Stiles in surprise. “Your … father?” He was confused who Stiles meant.

Stiles looked at Derek. “The man you refer to as Doctore is my father,” he explained.

Derek was silent for a moment. “Everyone said you were lovers,” he softly spoke.

Stiles’ face twisted with disgust at the thought. “Because of the anger my father bares those that harm me?” He questioned.

Derek nodded his head. “And the night you were both brought to a private room—it was assumed you were made to perform together.”

Stiles shook his head. “Your dominus’ son—the senator—remembers my father from his younger years,” he explained. “My father was a tutor, for many years. And Chris remembered him—he wanted my father to have a moment with me, knowing we have not seen each other in almost ten years.”

“A tutor,” Derek mused. “That … actually makes sense.”

Stiles faintly smiled at that, proud that Derek noticed his father’s abilities. “He and I were sold to Harris after his services were no longer needed at the school. He … he taught Harris’ children until ...” He grew pale at the memory, his stomach twisting into knots.

Derek noticed the change. “You don’t have to talk about it,” he offered.

Stiles frowned. “I think I’ve lived with it silently long enough,” he hesitated. “And yet, the words still scare me.” He looked at Derek. “Harris touched me, in a way no child should be. My father noticed, and reacted.” He tried to prevent the tears welling in his eyes. “Harris … punished us both for it. He sent my father to the Pits to die, and took me into his bed. I’ve been his personal body slave since.”

Derek took a small step closer to Stiles. “The domina of this house has … adopted a similar  _ attachment  _ to me.” He didn’t know how to talk about such things, unsure if it would comfort Stiles at all. “We’re their puppets to play with.”

“But we shouldn’t be,” Stiles replied. “I long, like so many, to be free—far away from everything to do with Romans.”

“You’d have to go very far,” Derek answered. “Well past the Rhine.”

Stiles looked at Derek. “Even in your home?”

“My home is gone now, thanks to Romans,” Derek answered.

“Perhaps Africa—well beyond Egypt,” Stiles suggested.

“A long trip,” Derek commented.

Stiles appeared sullen despite his hopeful words. “My father is hopeful that the senator will grant him and I freedom,” he explained. “I do not see that day coming.”

“No slave does,” Derek weakly answered.

Stiles looked up at Derek. “Do you have family here?”

Derek nodded. “My sister. The rest ... ” He frowned at the memory of his tribe is flames—the image of his youngest brother face down in the bloodied dirt. “The Romans killed the rest,” he finally stated.

Stiles reached an unsteady hand out, gently touching Derek’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Derek tried to focus on something other than Stiles’ touch. “I would not want them to suffer this,” he replied.

“Did you have a wife?” Stiles questioned.

Derek shook his head. “No, I never took a wife, nor sired children.”

Stiles looked at Derek, surprised bewilderment in her features. “Are you … ” he stopped himself, a blush rising on his cheeks. “I’m sorry, nevermind—”

“Am I what?” Derek asked, curious what Stiles wanted to know.

Stiles shyly looked at Derek. “Are you attracted to men?”

Derek was surprised by that. “Yes,” he simply answered. "It's why I said you weren't the thing I took issue with tonight."

Stiles nodded his head as he took a step towards Derek, bringing the gap between them to a close. He looked up at Derek, offering the smallest version of a timid smile he could muster. “I wish you favor,” he started. “And that you will never feel the pain of loss over family again. You deserve your freedom, like so many here, and I hope you succeed where my father and I have failed.” His gaze dropped to Derek’s lips, briefly looking at the other man’s mouth before taking a step back. He turned to leave Derek, knowing Harris would be expecting him. He was surprised when Derek grabbed his arm.

“You didn’t tell me about yourself,” Derek explained when Stiles turned to look at him.

Stiles looked confused by Derek’s words.

“Who are you attracted to,” Derek echoed back to Stiles’ earlier question.

Stiles drew in a steady breath, his body gravitating towards Derek. “You,” he softly spoke. “Earlier, I … I wanted to kiss you,” he confessed, a blush spreading across his skin. “But the Romans would have known—”

“And now?” Derek asked as he steps close to Stiles, their bodies almost touching.

Stiles looked up at Derek, uncertain if he should speak his desires so freely. He nodded instead, knowing that it could not travel to prying ears.

Derek reached his hands up to cup Stiles’ face in his palms, tilting the younger man’s face upwards. He brought his lips down against Stiles’ own, sharing a chaste kiss between them.

Stiles made a sound of pleasant surprise, a soft mewling accompanying his attempt to steady himself against Derek. His hands gripped Derek’s shoulders as he opened up to their kiss, holding on to Derek in fear that he might pull back.

Stiles blushed as he looked up at Derek. His lips were tingling.

Derek ran his thumb along Stiles' cheek, his gaze dropping to watch Stiles' tongue lick over his lips.

Stiles moved to kiss Derek again, opening his mouth to taste Derek. He had never wanted to kiss someone before, many of the Romans who did kiss him merely took whatever they wanted.

"Derek," Kira's voice cut through the moment.

Stiles pulled back, startled at being found. He clung to Derek, uncertain if they would get in trouble.

"Harris is coming," Kira warned. "Hurry and dress, I have to get you back downstairs," she explained as she turned an eye back to the rooms outside.

Derek placed a chaste kiss to Stiles' lips, promising, "I'll pray for the day you and your father are reunited." He took a final, longing look at Stiles. "And that I'll see you again."

"I wish you victory," Stiles softly answered. "And freedom, so we may meet again."

"Derek, hurry!" Kira harshly whispered.

Derek pulled back from Stiles, exiting the bath. He carelessly wiped himself off before tying his subligaria back into place. He looked back at Stiles, allowing Kira to pull him out of sight just as Harris entered the bath.

"Why are you still bathing?" Harris demanded. “Get out of the water, now!”

Stiles quietly obeyed, getting out of the bath to dry himself off. He barely had his robes tied when Harris grabbed his arm, forcing him to face the older man.

"You look content," Harris spoke the words with ill contempt. "Are you cleaned out?" He reached around Stiles, his hand sneaking beneath Stiles' robes to inspect him.

Stiles grimaced when Harris pressed his fingers between his asscheeks, bearing down when Harris's fingers breached him.

"I thought you'd still be full," Harris scoffed.

Stiles' expression waned, a vacancy taking over his features when Harris's touch on him lingered.

"You better have behaved yourself," Harris uttered, his tone threatening a great deal of it was proven otherwise.

"Yes," Stiles weakly answered.

Harris's expression twisted in anger as he reached his hand up to smack Stiles across the face.

Stiles was almost unfazed.

"Filthy little cunt," Harris hissed in anger. "One slave cock fucks you, and you forget your place!" His voice rose in volume.

"Apologies, Dominus," Stiles answered, keeping his gaze down on the floor.

"If you enjoyed yourself so much, perhaps you should spend a night in the ludus cells," Harris threatened, roughly grabbing Stiles by the hair as he yanked the young man's head back, forcing Stiles to look up at him. "Then your father could finally see how well you can take a cock now."

Tears burned Stiles' eyes, anger twisting in his stomach when he did the unthinkable. He shoved Harris back away from him. He realized the graveness of his mistake as he watched Harris stumble for footing.

Harris turned murderous.

Stiles stepped away from Harris's advancing steps, his back suddenly colliding with the wall. He cried out when Harris grabbed him by the hair, shoving his face against the wall.

"You'll regret that," Harris seethed as he held Stiles pinned against the wall by his punishing grip in Stiles' hair. His other hand grabbed a handful of Stiles' robes, tearing them out of the way to uncover Stiles' ass.

Stiles closed his eyes, stifling his cry of pain when Harris's cock breached him. He had grown accustomed to Harris’ outbursts—for the rough hands and mistreatment to get worse with every incident. He became quite good at shutting his senses off and hiding his mind away. His hands clawed against the wall, his nails uselessly digging at something to hold onto as he waited for Harris to finish.

"I have half the mind to call your father up here," Harris grunted against Stiles' ear. "Make him watch how good his little boy has gotten," he accented his words with a rough thrust. "Have all the gladiators line up for turn," he panted with exertion. "And then when you're thoroughly used, I'll have your father fuck you last."

Stiles startled at being jostled, falling to the side when Harris was ripped away. He turned to look, discovering none other than Derek restraining Harris by his throat. He realized that Derek must have returned for some reason. He was paralyzed with uncertainty as he watched Derek hit Harris when the man tried to get free.

~*~

Derek turned his head to look at his arm, twisting it to the side in order to give his wrist a break. He released a heavy breath of pain when he realized he could barely lift his arm. He had been in the cell for a few days, watching the sun sets and rises when he could keep count. He wished Stiles was safe, unknowing of his fate when the Argent guards burst into the room. He ceased struggling when the guard pressed a sharp weapon into his back.

Stiles had been yanked away by Jennifer as Harris was looked after.

Derek heard the senators laughing some, amused that Derek acted in such a violent manner.

_ He had a taste, and couldn’t resist taking more. _

Derek knew that Harris must have lied, placing the blame of Stiles’ assault on him. He was certain he’d be put to death when the Dominus finally decided the best fate for him.

The cell door yawned open. Derek knew who it was before looking up, recognizing the sickly sweet scented oil Kate wore.

“You had to be so stupid,” Kate sighed as she moved to crouch in front of Derek. She turned her head to the side as she inspected him. “I spoiled you,” she uttered.

Derek looked at Kate, a glare taking over his features.

“We could have kept having fun,” Kate pursed her lips in displeasure. “We had fun, didn’t we.” She moved to stand, taking a step back. "What am I going to do now, though? Father is sour that he has to make an example of you—a fucking waste. And now I'm going without."

Derek chose to remain silent.

"Was getting your cock in him again worth it?" Kate asked. She glowered when Derek refused to be baited. "I saw the look on your face when you came in him," she chose to utter. "I must have trained you too well."

Derek looked up at Kate, anger spreading through his chest. He wanted to tear her apart—her and any other Roman who thought they could use someone for their sick pleasure the way he, and Stiles, had been.

"I could take the shackles off, you know," Kate stated, a demented smile on her lips. "Let you enjoy one last fuck."

Derek scoffed at her as he shook his head. How proudly naive any Roman must have been to think a slave enjoyed their abuse. “I never enjoyed  _ fucking  _ you,” he spat at Kate’s feet.

Kate glared down at Derek, angered with the rejection. “I took pleasure from you, it was never meant to be the other way around. You think you were so special? You were just a tool for me to get what I needed,” she firmly stated. “Not that you’ll live to see it,” she started, placing a hand over her stomach in a theatrical manner. “Now that I’m with child, Marcus will finally take me from here.”

Derek stared up at Kate, his stomach twisting into knots as he started to understand what happened. His eyes looked to Kate's stomach in disbelieving horror.

“You didn’t think I needed you just for pleasure, did you?” Kate uttered with a twisted smirk on her lips. “My husband can’t get a woman pregnant, and he blamed me,” she rolled her eyes. “So I found another way to get what I needed.”

Derek shook his head.

“You looked close enough to Marcus that it wouldn’t be hard to make him believe the child was his,” Kate continued. She walked closer to Derek, reaching a hand down to twist her fingers in Derek’s hair, forcing him to look up at her. “It disgusts me, knowing I’ll have to call a halfbreed my husband’s heir. But I know that it will torment you, well after you’ve been executed, knowing that you have a child that you’ll never know.”

Derek didn’t flinch when Kate shoved him back. He tried to close his hands into fists, the numbness burning through his arms. He felt sick as the silence grew once Kate retreated from the cell.

~*~

Derek woke to the sound of screams. He could barely see beyond the pale glow of the torches lining the ludus’ walls. He stared at the cell door, surprise striking him when it was tore open to reveal none other than a bloodsoaked Laura.

Laura rushed forward, hands quickly working to unlock the chains wrapped around Derek’s wrists.

Derek’s feet shuffled as he tried to prepare to stand. “What’s happening?”

“We’ve finally started a fucking revolt,” Laura replied, ripping the chain off of Derek’s wrist. She quickly moved to the other. “Doctore has rallied the men—he knows what happened with that slave.”

Derek looked surprised by Laura’s words. “His son,” he stated.

Laura paused for a moment. “His …  _ shit _ .” She cursed in their native tongue. “Well, he knows you didn’t hurt him.”

“There is that,” Derek stated with relief as Laura took the other shackle off. His arms were weak, his hands unable to grip anything. He was glad for Laura helping him stand. He swayed on his feet, the days being restrained causing him little control of his limbs.

Laura’s brow crinkled when she attempted to hand Derek one of her swords. She put her arm around Derek’s waist, allowing him to use her for support. “We’ll get out of here quickly,” she pressed as she pulled Derek along with her.

Derek stumbled some as he tried to keep pace with her. He could hear the screams of terror coming from all around them. “They’ll kill the others,” he uttered, losing thought as they walked through the winding hallways of the cells.

“Doctore is seeing to saving them all,” Laura replied, ignoring Derek’s turn of attention towards where the dispute was happening. She was surprised when a guard happened upon them. She used her free hand to wield her sword in defense.

“Laura, I can’t—” Derek stumbled, falling against the wall as Laura’s hold faltered. He watched as Laura easily killed the man.

Laura turned back to Derek, grabbing his arm as she tried to usher him into standing.

“Kate— she can’t—” Derek shook his head as he stood.

Laura looked incredulously at Derek. “She’s probably dead already—”

“She’s with child!” Derek yelled at Laura as he fell back against the wall.

Laura stared at Derek, her expression falling. She frowned, reaching a hand out to cup Derek’s face. She forced him to look up at her.

“She’s with child,” Derek weakly echoed his former confession. “With my child,” he weakly sobbed out when Laura pressed their foreheads together.

“ _ Calm your breath, _ ” Laura gently coaxed calmness from him.

“ _ I don’t know what to do, _ ” Derek closed his eyes against the hotness of tears as he spoke.

“ _ We’ll live _ ,” Laura answered. She embraced Derek, trying to help him move with her.

~*~

They were almost at the gate when more soldiers appeared.

Laura was forced to relinquish her hold on Derek, using both her hands to fight.

Derek managed to get a sword from one of the fallen guards, attempting to keep Laura from being overrun.

It seemed that they had won.

Derek felt the fool for believing it as he moved to grasp Laura’s arm. He was facing Laura when she saw the threat.

“No!” Laura yelled as she pulled Derek forward, getting him out of the way.

Derek stumbled, his arms moving to cushion his fall to the ground. He collided with the dirt, closing his eyes briefly to shield them. He heard the sounds of a quick skirmish before two cries of mutual pain.

Derek turned on his side, looking to Laura. He scurried over to her when he saw that Laura wasn’t moving to get up as she clutched at her side. “No, no,” he quickly uttered as he moved beside her, trying to pry her hands away to see.

“Don’t!” Laura roughly demanded when Derek tried to remove her hand from the wound on her abdomen. “Don’t– by the gods, don’t,” she painfully cried.

“What do I do– tell me what to do?” Derek pleaded with her.

Laura shook her head.

“How do I save you?” Derek demanded, pulling her into his arms as he helplessly began to panic.

Laura always had a plan–she always knew what to do. “Not this time,” she gasped.

Blood was oozing between her fingers, the puddle dirtying the sand beneath her only grew with each passing second.

“Laura, don’t leave me,” Derek nearly begged.

“It’s okay,” Laura breathily spoke, trying to calm Derek and convince herself the same.

It reminded Derek of when he was a child and their mother would head off to battle a warring tribe. He would pull at her wolfskin skirts, begging her not to leave him alone. She would press her foreheads to Derek, and tell him they would always be reunited one day.

Derek didn’t believe their mother then, and he didn’t believe Laura now.

“It’s– it’s okay,” Laura said once again, this time softer than before. She weakly smiled at Derek, reaching her free hand up to grab ahold of his hair. She pulled Derek’s forehead down against her own, closing her eyes. “ _ Live a life with honor, _ ” she began.

Derek squeezed his eyes shut. “ _ Die a death with honor _ ,” he spoke their tribe’s words–their mother’s words–back to her.

Derek’s hold on Laura tightened when he felt her grip going limp against him. He lifted her up higher, against his chest as he pressed his face into the curve of her shoulder. He sobbed when Laura’s hand fell away from his hair, her arms falling lifeless beside her.

Derek released a forlorn cry, anger and pain overtaking his senses as he held onto his sister’s lifeless body.

Something in Derek’s heart broke–weeping with him as he mourned the last of his family.

~*~

“Father!” Kate yelled in a hushed tone, too quiet to be heard over the sounds of the dying. She quickly turned around, preparing to move to another room to search. She paused when she saw Derek standing in the doorway.

Derek turned the sword in his hand, testing the weight of it as he took a step into the room. He was still covered in blood, part of him trying to ignore that some of the blood staining his skin was Laura’s.

“How did you escape?” Kate demanded as she turned towards Derek.

“You’ve taken a lot from me,” Derek roughly replied, electing to not answer Kate’s question. He approached Kate with eased steps. “You and the rest of the fucking Romans.”

“I am the Domina of this house,” Kate countered, her gaze hateful and fierce despite the tremble in her voice.

“And you think you’re alive because of that?” Derek asked. He pointed his sword towards her. “There is more than one slave who wishes you dead.”

Kate’s back collided with the column behind her.

“I only have one question for you,” Derek softly started. “Where is Harris?”

Derek thoughts were running wild with grief. If Derek hadn’t been accused of raping Stiles, perhaps he would have been with Laura when the revolt happened. Perhaps he and Laura could have escaped if Kate hadn’t decided to play a game with others lives. If Harris hadn’t turned everything into a pissing contest.

There were many ifs Derek wanted to rectify.

Kate reached her hand back against the column supporting her. She pressed her back into the fine marble. She shook her head, “There’s no point— even your Doctore doesn’t know how to find him—”

“Where?” Derek sharply demanded.

Kate lifted her head high, looking down on Derek. “Escort my father and I out of here, and I’ll tell you exactly where Harris is–him and that little cunt you enjoyed so much.”

Derek’s hand pressed against Kate’s mouth, his palm covering her lips to silence her venomous lies. Blood smeared from Derek’s hand to cover Kate’s skin. “I’ve suffered your voice enough. You’re a treacherous snake, who would forfeit another’s life for her own pleasure.”

Kate shook her head against Derek’s hand. “What about the child?” She tried to plead with reasoning. With Marcus dead, it was all she had left to hope for protection.

Derek’s hand tightened on the grip of the sword. A part of his heart wished to stay his hand, but logic swayed him against it. He knew not how he would live with his choice, but knew what had to be done.

Derek twisted the sword’s grip in his hand, nestling the blade against his forearm. He made the action quick and ruthless, his arm raising and slashing through the air. He didn’t react when Kate’s blood sprayed from her throat, coating Derek’s skin in even more blood. He pulled his arm away from her weak grasp, looking down as she collapsed to the tiled floor. He watched as blood pooled around her.


	3. Chapter 3

They had been marching east of the villa once John and Scott managed to rally the others.

Derek took a moment to himself, withdrawing the small silver ringlets from his pocket. Laura had worn them in her hair, managing to keep them safe from the slavers. They were the only things they both had of home. He turned them in his hands, looking at the details–ones similar to what he remembered their mother wearing. He wished his hair was still as long as before, to be able to slip them into his braids to keep his family tied to him. He remembered after Kate had his hair cut, Kira had taken the silver adornments out before they were cast out with the hair—she brought them to Derek afterwards.

And now he had Laura’s to add to his own.

Derek sat alone in his grief as the other rested. His gaze wandered until a peculiar sight caught his eye.

He had seen a small marble statue in the shape of a human when they first arrived at the spot. He rose, moving over to kneel before the statue. He looked down at it, examining the feminine features. He looked down at the small offerings in the bowls, knowing that it must have been a tribute to the image of a god.

Derek placed the flowers he had picked for his intended prayer, having seen John and a few of the others do it before. He took out his own silver rings, the few that he still had. He placed them with the flowers. He settled on his knees, looking down at the statue as he started his prayer.

“ _ Goddess, please protect … the unnamed _ ,” Derek softly spoke, his grief silencing his tongue when he realized he had no name for his unborn child. “ _ Take the child into your arms, care for it as I cannot, _ ” he bit his tongue. “ _ Goddess, take the unnamed into your arms, gift the child with tender care. _ ” He repeated the words in a soft tone, it becoming a weak chant for him to channel his grief through.

John had been keeping an eye on Derek since they left, knowing the man had been shaken to his core from losing Laura. He watched as Derek made his sacrifice, part of him wondering how Derek even understood what he was praying to—let alone for.

Derek was silent when John made himself known, his soft prayers dying on his lips now that he had an audience. He turned his attention towards John, “Do you believe in the gods?”

John looked slightly amused by such a question. “I believe in mankind,” he offered. “There is a reason we all have higher powers we look to for guidance–for hope.” He looked back at Derek. “But you’re praying to gods you don’t believe in. That won’t help.”

“I fear I’ve been abandoned by all gods,” Derek faintly replied.

“Gods don’t answer just because you call them,” John offered as he looked at Derek. “Our faith is what gives us the belief that all will work out in the end.”

Derek weakly nodded, looking down at his small sacrifice. “And for one who has never been born,” he started, daring to look at John. “How could they be received by the gods if they’ve never had a chance to have faith?”

John turned his gaze from Derek to the sacrifice before the small statue of Juno. He took in a steady breath, turning his sight back to Derek, observing the weariness and guilt for the first time–the fear that he had done something unspeakable.

“Kate,” John concluded. “You killed her,” he added, waiting for there to be a denial.

“Yes,” Derek faintly replied. “But she’s not the one I pray for.”

John released a heavy breath. “What she did to us–”

“I killed my child,” Derek answered. “Before it even drew breath, or heartbeat, I killed it.” He drew his legs up to his chest, pressing his face into the curve of his knees, his chest hurting as he started to break down once more. Laura, however, wasn’t here this time to comfort his breaking heart. “I’m not sure … which gods to pray to. I don’t know what gods … the child would have believed in. But I couldn’t let Kate live. I couldn’t– I couldn’t … ”

John reached an arm out, pulling Derek to the side in a half embrace as he allowed him to continue hiding his face.

“Your child is with a better mother now,” John answered, his eyes settling on the statue of Juno. “One that will care and nurture it until you are reunited once more.” His thoughts drifted to Stiles, how his own heart broke the day Harris separated them. How he struggled and fought to protect Stiles, completely lost and unknowing if or when they would be reunited. Many of his nights were spent thinking that he’d never see Stiles again–that he would never be allowed to say goodbye. He took comfort in knowing that their gods would reunite them–that in death, they would be granted the peace that was stolen from them in life.

~*~

John refused to wait for Scott to plan out an attack on the villa. He moved quickly, running up to the villa’s entrance. He was comforted that most of the men immediately followed after him.

John didn’t hesitate with the first guard he ran into. He cut the man down quickly, the action easier than any he had done before with the thought that he was so close to getting his son back.

The gladiators fanned out quickly, dispatching the guards they came upon. The slaves trembled in surrender, surprised when the gladiators did not harm them.

“Melissa,” John called, catching the attention of one of the older slaves.

A woman, around the same age as John, turned to look at him. She dropped the weapon she had picked up, rushing to John.

Melissa paled considerably when laying eyes on John. “You’ve finally come,” she uttered, reaching a welcoming hand out to him, embracing him as if she never thought they’d meet again.

“Where is he?” John asked as he held onto Melissa, using her as an anchor should her answer be the unthinkable.

“Dominus has him in his bedroom,” Melissa unsteadily replied, weakly pulling back to look John in the eyes. “He’s kept him in there for days, John. He– he won’t let anyone in the room to check on him.”

She dared not tell him about the cries she heard. Nor how the guards thwarted her every attempt to get inside.

John knew the outlay of the house better than the Argent’s own villa. He memorized the routes, his dreams often consisting of raining havoc and retribution down upon the walls' inhabitants for everything they had done to Stiles. His dreams still saw Stiles as the twelve year old he was when they were forced to part. He knew Stiles had lost all innocence that day, knew that the years that passed had seen him mature into manhood.

John knew that Stiles was no longer the boy he had raised, but had hoped he could save him regardless.

“He’s in there alone with him,” Melissa continued.

“Can we trust her?” Derek asked, skeptical in trusting any outsider’s word.

“She’s been a mother to Stiles,” was all John offered, releasing Melissa and heading to the room he knew to belong to Harris and Jennifer.

Derek hesitated in following, his steps far behind John as he allowed him to take the lead. He told himself he followed in order to guarantee John’s safety. He refused to believe that he wanted to see Stiles again–to make sure that Stiles was safe.

Derek startled to a halt when he heard a scream tear through the villa. He hesitated, seeing John running forward into the labyrinth of hallways. He rushed after, hearing the familiar sound of a blade cutting through flesh.

“ _ Melampus _ !” John yelled upon entering the room, rushing forward despite the scene before him.

The room looked like a sacrificial chamber, one that prayed to the gods for vengeance–justice. A slender, naked form was kneeling on the bed, their hand continuously stabbing a serving blade into the body draped across the bed, ignoring the blood covering their skin. Whimpering sobs echoed through the room, the naked figure speaking in Greek, his words strained and foreign to Derek’s ears.

Derek halted in the door way when he realized the naked figure was Stiles.

Stiles was crying, sharp sobs cracking through his chest as his arm continued to raise the blade above his head before vigorously bringing it down into the corpse before him. He didn’t care that he was covered in blood, nor that his muscles ached. He was in a blind rage, his body moving on its own, unable to stop himself even when John grabbed him.

“ _ Melampus _ !” John shouted again when Stiles struggled against him, trying to get free to continue stabbing the mangled and unmoving body. “υἱός!”

Stiles weakly came to, blinking through his tears as he looked up at his father. “πᾰτήρ?” He crumpled against John’s chest, allowing his father to pull his body away from the bed–from the bloody mess before him. His tears were heavy, raking through his body as he sobbed against John’s shoulder, curling into his body.

John gently rocked Stiles against his chest, his eyes moving to look at Derek.

Derek hesitated, coming to an understanding with John. He knew the dead body on the bed was none other than Harris. He knew Stiles was in a weakened, hysterical state, his trauma forcing him to lash out. He knew what trauma could do when pushed to the surface, he had felt that rage and fear in himself when he slit Kate’s throat. He backed out of the room, closing the doors behind him, giving father and son both the time they desperately needed together.

~*~

John remained fully clothed as he carried Stiles' naked body into the bath. He sat with Stiles in his lap, using a gentle hand to wash the blood away from Stiles' shoulders. He worked to get the blood off wherever Stiles would allow him to reach.

Stiles softly sobbed when John's hand grazed the bite mark on his shoulder. He turned his face into John's neck, attempting to hide away.

" _ Melampus,"  _ John gently prompted Stiles to look at him with a soft touch to his cheek.

Stiles tearfully uttered, "πᾰτήρ—" His voice cracked with another heavy sob.

John quietly hushed Stiles tears, placing a hand around the back of his son's neck. He held Stiles close, against his chest as he used to do when Stiles was a boy. He startled into near action when he heard approaching steps. He eased when he saw it was Derek. He had been curious what Derek was carrying before he saw Melissa behind him.

Melissa moved past Derek, walking into the room with some small medical vials in her hands. "Set them down there," she instructed Derek. She didn't care about dirtying her dress as she waded down into the bath's bloodied water. She moved to kneel before John, her gaze dropping to Stiles.

Derek obeyed Melissa, averting his gaze from the scene in front of him. He left in order to give them privacy.

"Stiles," Melissa's voice softly addressed him, a motherly tone cutting through the tension.

Stiles weakly turned his head to look at her.

"I'm going to take care of your wounds," Melissa explained.

Stiles mindlessly nodded, allowing Melissa to touch him, though he didn't give up his hold on his father.

"The others," John started, a worry in his voice. He didn't want anyone coming to stare at Stiles. "I need to tell them to stay away from here—"

"The German is seeing to it," Melissa calmed John. "He asked me to help you both while he saw to the others."

John hesitated before nodding. He knew he couldn't leave Stiles, not now that he had his son back in his arms.

~*~

Derek moved to kneel beside Kira, offering her the food and water he procured. He frowned when she shook her head.

Kira pulled her knee up to her chest, hugging her leg tightly.

“You should eat something,” Derek offered. He turned his head to look at the rowdiness of those celebrating. He looked back to Kira, his gaze watching her guarded features.

“My heart aches too much,” Kira reasoned.

Derek turned to sit beside Kira. He placed the food and drink between them. “I would pay for your thoughts … had I any coin.”

A soft smile pulled at the corner of Kira’s lips before the silence grew to the point of anguish.

“I shouldn’t have bothered you,” Derek finally stated, moving to stand up. He stopped when Kira grabbed his hand.

“You’re not a bother, we just—” Kira started, a faint sob hiccuping out. “We didn’t get to do last rights.” She shook her head, pressing a palm against her closed eyes as she attempted to stop the burn of tears. “I’ll never see her again— feel the warmth of her arms. Nor her soft touch or her kiss.”

Derek sank back down to sit beside Kira again. He reached his arm over her shoulders, pulling her against his side. “I spoke a prayer over her,” he softly explained. “I scattered earth over her, which is part of our tribe’s custom when funerary rights cannot be done. Her spirit will move on with ease, and be looked after until we see her again.”

Kira reached out to hug Derek, curling into him as she let out another sob.

Time passed as Derek coaxed Kira through her tears. When she was quiet, a sign of no more tears, Derek chose to speak, “I have something that Laura would want you to have.”

Kira looked at Derek, wiping the remains of her tears away. She looked down at the silver ringlets in Derek’s hand.

“In our tribe, these worked to tell our stories,” Derek explained, lifting up one of them to show Kira the engravings. “They go in the braids of warriors.” He reached his hand out to put the rings in Kira’s hand. “They were Laura’s.”

Kira tightened her hold on the rings. “Thank you.”

~*~

John sat beside the bed Stiles slept on. He looked down at his son, watching Stiles’ chest moving with each breath. He reached a hand up to run his hand through Stiles’ hair. He quickly withdrew his hand when Stiles whimpered. He raised himself from the best, reaching for the linen blanket Melissa had brought with her after they finished dressing Stiles. He placed the blanket over Stiles, pulling it up to his shoulders. He paused when he saw the mark on Stiles’ shoulder.

A series of fresh cuts marred the flesh of Stiles’ shoulder, in the form of teeth marks.

It wasn’t the first wound John saw that evening.

John gnawed his teeth in anger, his blood boiling with a fury. His heart cracked from the pain. He rose from the bed, turning to exit the room. “Stay with him,” he instructed Melissa as he left in a rush. He walked out into the courtyard, catching sight of the others carrying the bodies out to be properly buried. “Wait!” He commanded when he saw Harris’s mangled corpse being carried by two of the gladiators. He walked over to them when they obeyed his order, coming to stand beside them. He looked down at Harris’s lifeless body, knowing that the deed had been done yet if felt inconsequential to the harm the Roman had inflicted.

Stiles was freed from him, but Harris’s cruelty would haunt him for the rest of his years.

John spit on Harris’s corpse. “Discard of him so his flesh rots and body bloats—he deserves even less than that.”

The gladiators knew someone had mutilated the Roman’s body, it was only obvious now who had the motive to do such a thing.

“Doctore, but where?” One of the men asked.

“Weigh his body down, and throw him into the marshes to be forgotten,” John instructed. He turned to head back to Stiles. “And Doctore is no longer my title!” He spoke it loud enough for all to hear him. He was done with that life, and he cursed whatever man tried to remind him of it.

~*~

It took many days for Stiles to finally speak.

“How are you here?” Stiles’ voice broke the silence that lingered between him and his father.

John looked at Stiles with surprise, dropping his food back into his bowl as he placed all his attention on Stiles. “We broke out,” he replied.

Stiles was staring at the wall by his bed, his body eerily still as he remained on the cot. “Did you kill many?”

John frowned at Stiles’ question, but he refused to lie to his son. “Yes.”

Stiles turned to look at his father. “Romans?”

“Yes,” John answered.

Stiles stared at his father. “Good,” was all he uttered before turning back to look at the wall.

~*~

Stiles woke early one morning. He could smell the early morning dew, knowing the sun had yet to rise completely. He turned onto his side, catching sight of his father sleeping on the floor beside him. He lifted himself with ease, taking a cautious step over his father as to not wake him. He took a lingering look at his father before exiting into the hallway.

Stiles noticed that the blood had been scrubbed clean from the walls. He wondered if they cleaned the whole house, almost curious about why they would bother. He followed the torches lighting the halls, careful not to step on any person drunkenly passed out on the ground. He made his way into the courtyard, breathing fresh air for the first time in over a week. He breathed in deeply, appreciating the crispness of the morning air.

Stiles turned to survey his surroundings, looking at the people around him, almost recognizing no one. He knew Harris was dead, but Jennifer was somewhere else when it happened. Then there were their sons.

Stiles startled when the doors opened, his thoughts terrified that it could be Roman soldiers coming to kill them all. His breathing eased when he saw that it was Derek.

Derek was carrying the stag over his shoulders, an attempt to keep a majority of the animal fit for food and hide. He had left hours ago, only returning when his mind was clear and his bow had won him prey. He paused his steps when he saw Stiles standing in the middle of the courtyard. He adjusted his grip on the stag so he wouldn’t lose it as he bowed his head to Stiles.

Stiles nodded back at Derek, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as he anxiously wrung his fingers together. He followed after Derek when he started into the kitchens. He lingered by the doorway, watching Derek drop the stag down onto the preparation counter.

Derek made sure to situate the stag properly before turning away. He paused when he saw Stiles standing in the doorway.

Stiles offered a small smile. “Hi,” he softly uttered.

“Hello,” Derek answered.

Stiles looked at the stag before looking back at Derek. “Are we out of food?”

Derek followed Stiles’ gaze to the stag. “Oh, no,” he replied as he looked at Stiles. “I was restless–hunting clears my mind.”

Stiles nodded, looking down at his hands.

“Are you well?” Derek decidedly asked, unsure if he could allow the silence to grow between them.

Stiles paused a moment before looking up at Derek’s eyes. “No,” he weakly uttered. Tears burned his eyes. “I fear the gods don’t want to listen to prayer when it demands answers.”

He remembered the collar around his neck, Harris yanking on it hard enough to choke him. He had laid there, motionless as his vision started to black, his whole body aching and on fire. He could never forget Harris’s voice mocking him.

_ If your gods believe you worthy of such justice, where are they? _

He knew there were still bruises on his neck, though he was thankful Derek did not look at them.

“The gods seldom answer my prayers as well,” Derek replied. He reached his hand up to brush one of Stiles’ tears away with the back of his fingers. His touch lingered when Stiles closed his eyes and pressed into the gesture.

“I dare say, your presence here is a greater comfort than a god’s answer,” Stiles replied.

“Melampus!” John’s unnerved voice called after Stiles, followed by the hurried sound of footsteps rushing towards the courtyard. John startled when he saw the gates were open.

“Πᾰτήρ,” Stiles softly called to him. He walked out of the kitchens to see his father looking as mad as a bacchae. “I’m here, I wouldn’t go outside the walls—”

“Why are the gates open?” John asked as he pulled Stiles into a strong embrace.

“They were only open a moment,” Stiles replied, hugging his father. He looked over his father’s shoulder to see Derek coming out of the kitchens.

John turned, his gaze narrowing on Derek. “What were you doing?”

Derek paused, his features pensive, as if he was contemplating if John was accusing him of something. “I went hunting.”

“And left the gate open,” John started.

“Πᾰτήρ,” Stiles started, his tone stern with warning.

“I closed it when I left,” Derek elaborated for John’s sake. “I was carrying a stag, it was difficult to close it while carrying the beast.”

Stiles pulled away from his father. “I wanted to talk to him, and I ended up distracting him.”

John looked at Stiles.

Stiles’ brow crinkled as he looked at his father. “ _ I wanted to know he was well, _ ” he spoke to John in Greek.

John seemed surprised by Stiles. “ _ You haven’t spoken in days. _ ”

“And I wanted to speak with a friend,” Stiles angrily snapped at John in Latin.

Derek cleared his throat, a warning to the two men that they were not alone now that their voices had stirred others from sleep. “I apologize for any worry—I did not know my company was ill-suited,” he offered, turning to head over to the gate.

Stiles turned to look after Derek before rounding a glare on his father. He started marching past his father, knowing that the older man would follow him back to their rooms. He angrily paced a few times before John caught up with him. He glowered at his father. “How dare you—”

“Melampus,” John’s tone voiced a warning for Stiles to calm his tongue.

“He is a friend,” Stiles hissed at his father.

“A friend who looks at you often,” John replied.

He wasn’t as oblivious as some took him for. He had seen Stiles lingering on the outskirts of the courtyard, eyes watching and tracking Derek. He had also seen the way Derek’s eyes lingered on Stiles when they first arrived, the German’s touch almost too familiar. He knew the rumors for Derek’s punishment at the ludus was a lie, and that he did not rape the poor body slave. But he still didn’t trust his son alone with anyone in their company.

“Perhaps I welcome his eyes,” Stiles dared.

“Stiles—”

“I am not a child,” Stiles seethed.

“You’re my child!” John loudly shouted back.

Stiles’ lips pressed together in a firm line as he silenced his next argument.

“You are my child, and I will not let some lust driven gladiator take advantage of you,” John finally finished.

“You don’t trust your own men?” Stiles incredulously asked. “And Derek isn’t like that.”

“He’s performed many times for the Argents,” John replied.

Angry tears burned Stiles’ eyes. “His  _ domina  _ raped him, just as Harris and Jennifer did me. To be made to perform is not consent.”

John appeared at a loss for words.

“Would you call me ‘lust driven’?”

“No, I wouldn’t—”

“Then why him?” Stiles pressed.

John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I … I was unfair to speak in that manner,” he finally admitted. “I was angry— no, I was scared. I woke up and you were gone—like you vanished into thin air.” He took a step towards Stiles, cupping his son’s face in his hands. “I thought someone took you away, or that I just imagined reuniting.”

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew those moments himself—a time between sleep and waking, when he would forget what Harris and Jennifer did to him.

“I was unkind to speak of Derek that way,” John offered again.

“Yes, it was also unjust,” Stiles pointedly added.

John sighed. “Yes, unjust too.” He rubbed a hand over his weary features. “I’m sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles couldn’t stop looking at his father, seeing the years and exhaustion etched into his features. He wanted to tell John to relax—that he was allowed a break.

“I would like to train,” Stiles simply stated instead.

John stared at his son. “To?” He questioned.

“To fight,” Stiles replied.

John was quiet for a beat.

“You trained the others,” Stiles reasoned. “You could teach me.”

“No,” John forcefully replied. “You’re helping Melissa and the others—”

“Women and children, you mean,” Stiles snapped at John. “Derek taught Kira how to fight,” he pressed on. “You trained all of them how to fight—how to kill in an arena. All I want is to know how to defend myself.”

“You want to join the war effort,” John stated. He saw through Stiles’ well devised plan.

“I want to help,” Stiles replied. “If I know how to defend myself, I could help defend others. I could be useful—”

“You’re useful here,” John reasoned.

“You want to keep me locked away forever,” Stiles angrily yelled at his father. “ _ It won’t change what happened _ ,” he bitterly uttered.

“Stiles,” John sighed.

“Forget it,” Stiles sharply replied as he marched past his father, yanking his arm out of John’s reach.

~*~

Derek was sitting on the high wall, looking down over the approaching paths to the villas. He had taken a second watch, his nights restless without sleep. He would wake up from the nightmare that gripped him, his body covered in a cold sweat. There were only so many mornings he could slip away to hunt a stag and go unnoticed. He thought it would help keep the dreams away if he stayed awake longer.

He wasn’t sure it worked.

“May I join you?”

Derek turned his head to see Stiles climbing out onto the rooftop’s high wall with two cups in his hands. “Of course,” he replied, even knowing that he should have told Stiles no.

Stiles moved to sit beside Derek, offering him one of the cups.

“Gratitude,” Derek uttered as he took the cup from Stiles. He looked down at the liquid, noticing that it was wine and not water.

Stiles sipped at his wine, noticing that Derek was not drinking his. “Do you not partake in wine?” He questioned, wishing to know if he made an error.

“No, I do,” Derek replied. “I’m afraid I’m unused to Roman taste for wine,” he explained as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles smiled over the rim of his cup. “This wine is from Harris’s special stores,” he answered. “It’s much better than what the others are drinking.”

Derek arched an eyebrow at Stiles. “We’re keeping wine to ourselves?”

Stiles softly snorted at the idea. “No, I just know which container is which,” he offered.

“A blessing on my stomach then,” Derek answered before taking a sip.

Stiles waited in bated silence for a response.

“That’s … much sweeter than I expected,” Derek commented, a soft cough clearing his throat.

Stiles laughed when Derek’s face twisted into scrunched features at the sweetness. “It’s honey and a cane sugar,” he explained.

“How do you know all that?” Derek asked as he set the cup between them.

Stiles’ smile faltered some. “Harris always took me to the vineyards,” he answered. “No Roman ever thinks of a slave being capable of listening to them.”

Derek frowned some.

Stiles offered a faint smile to Derek.

“The Romans are fools,” Derek offered. “I enjoy your company.”

Stiles looked at Derek with a tenderness in his gaze. “And I yours.”


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles froze when they opened the crate to reveal the ornate masks.

“Looks like they’re made of gold,” one of them uttered.

Stiles reached a hand in, taking out one of the masks to look at it. “They’re special to the Argent household,” he explained. His hands began to tremble. “They’ll know what has happened if you sell them at market.”

Jackson’s expression twisted in distaste. “So we’re going to throw away valuable items?” He questioned Scott.

Derek took a step towards Stiles, reaching a hand out to take the mask from Stiles’ grip.

Stiles looked up at Derek, his grip slowly loosening from the mask. He let Derek take it from his hands. He remembered the nights he was forced to wear those masks, his body oiled and painted for the Roman he was meant to service that night. He recalled how he came to live inside the mask, to hide his pain and fear beneath the ornate mask. He dreaded the moment the Roman would yank the mask from his face to see his reactions.

“They’ll burn nicely,” Derek commented, dropping the mask back into the crate.

“Are you an idiot?” Jackson snapped at Derek.

“I thought that was your specialty,” Derek replied.

“We don’t need them,” John stated before a fight could break out between the two men. “We can’t walk into a market without drawing attention to ourselves anyways.”

Stiles was grateful when his father pushed the crate aside.

~*~

Stiles watched Derek from afar, keeping his gaze away whenever his father was present. He helped Melissa with getting provisions together, counting what they had and what they would need if they were to travel far from Rome’s reach. He knew there were eyes watching him, though he tried to ignore them.

“We can’t stay here much longer,” Stiles told Melissa, his eyes watching his father speak with Scott. “They’ll begin to notice that no one has spoken with Harris.”

Melissa frowned when she noticed Stiles stopped packing up the provisions. She reached a hand out to gently touch Stiles’ arm.

Stiles looked up at Melissa.

“Your father has a plan for us to move into the hills of Vesuvius,” Melissa explained. “He wants to free more of us, but we have to be careful doing so before we can move to Vesuvius.”

“They’ll fight even more Romans then,” Stiles concluded.

“We’ll rally as many as we can,” Melissa replied.

Stiles turned to look back at his father, resolving to speak with him once everyone parted for dinner. “I wish there was more I could do,” he voiced his concerns to Melissa.

Melissa pursed his lips at that. “And what would you do that you’re already not doing for everyone?”

Stiles released a heavy breath. “They all look at me in contempt,” he explained to Melissa.

“They cannot dislike someone they don’t know,” Melissa replied.

“They know I was Harris’s personal body slave,” Stiles countered. “They believe I had … luxuries.”

“I’ll whip the fool that thinks that,” Melissa simply stated. “They should show sympathy to all slaves, instead of comparing our hardships.”

Stiles weakly nodded. “And yet …” he hollowly began, his words dying on his lips when he heard the others raising alarm.

“Roman soldiers!” Scott yelled to the others.

Many began to panic, a type of chaos unfolding as they attempted to hide all evidence of their presence.

Stiles helped Melissa as quickly as he could before going over to his father.

“There are four riders,” Derek explained. “They’ll be here in minutes.”

“We can’t risk one of them getting away,” John stated.

“Then invite them in,” Stiles stated, making his presence known.

All eyes turned to look at him.

“Are you trying to get us killed?” Jackson snapped at Stiles. “Perhaps things work differently for a pleasure slave—”

John’s hand shot out, smacking Jackson across the face. “Watch your fucking tongue, or I’ll remove it.”

“Jackson had a point about us getting killed though,” Scott reasoned, watching as Jackson nursed his cheek and glared at John.

“Stiles is right,” Derek stated. “They’ll never look at any of us and believe we’re house slaves.”

“I can answer the door,” Melissa stated.

“You’re the medicus,” John replied.

“I will,” Stiles firmly stated.

John turned to look at Stiles. “No, you won’t—”

“They are going to be knocking on the door any second,” Stiles sharply started. “I can ask them to come in, get them distracted with food and drink. Then you can dispatch them.”

Three loud, sharp bangs against the door followed, ushering them into silence. “In the name of Rome, open your doors,” an authoritative voice commanded.

Derek took John’s arm, gaining his attention. He looked to Stiles, trying to communicate that it was their one chance now that planning wasn’t an option.

John ushered the others back, pausing as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles gestured for him to go, taking a step closer to the doors. He waited until everyone was clear of the courtyard before daring to unlock the gates. He took the form of an obedient slave, standing back as he allowed them men to walk through the gates.

“Where is your dominus?” The soldier asked of Stiles as he surveyed the empty courtyard.

“Apologies, he is traveling,” Stiles answered. “Our domina joined him for a journey to Sicily,” he added.

The soldier turned to look at Stiles. “He left you unattended,” he noted.

Stiles’ heartbeat quickened, though he tried to school his face. “I am my dominus’ personal body slave. He trusts me to keep his villa safe.”

The soldier scoffed. His gaze looked down at Stiles’ neck, noticing that the collar was missing. He reached his hand out to touch Stiles’ throat. “Do you always take your collar off in your master’s absence?”

Stiles remained still as the man touched him.

“Your tongue suddenly isn’t so loose,” the soldier stated.

“A frightened bitch,” one of the other soldiers replied.

“You’re Harris’s special body slave, aren’t you?” The soldier questioned as he wrapped his fingers around Stiles’ throat.

Stiles’ mind began to cloud over, memories of Harris’s hands on him were still too fresh.

“I’ve heard stories about him,” a soldier stated. “I heard he’s pretty talented,” he laughed at the words he spoke.

“I saw one of the senators with him once,” the last soldier noted. “He just laid there and took it. Ended up having a cock at both ends.”

“Well, if he’s that talented,” the soldier touching Stiles noted.

Stiles barely made a noise when he was hauled over to be thrown over the bench near the gates. His limbs started to shake when his robes were moved. His ears burned with their laughter, hearing one of them comment on the trembling of his body. He closed his eyes when the soldier yanked on his hair.

“A cock at both ends?” The soldier softly spoke against the shell of Stiles’ ear, a laughter in his voice. “More like two at one end, huh?”

Stiles startled into motion, reaching a hand up to claw at the man’s, trying to get free.

“We’ll try not to break you in too rough before your master gets back—”

Stiles fell forward against the bench, the soldier suddenly releasing him. He dared to look, seeing the others engaging in a fight with the soldiers. He watched in a haze as Derek killed the soldier who touched him—the one that started to restrain him.

Stiles stood on unsteady feet, barely registering Melissa coming to stand beside him.

“Are you alright?” Melissa worriedly asked.

John came to join Melissa beside Stiles.

“Fucking asshole!” Derek yelled at Scott as he marched towards him.

Jackson got between them, pushing Derek back.

“The other one was outside the gate—”

“You’d let them rape one of us if it meant killing all of them?” Derek furiously yelled at him.

John touched Stiles’ cheek, trying to get his son to look at him.

Stiles shoved by his father, hurrying out of the courtyard as he felt his chest tighten.

John rounded on Scott, only stopping when Melissa pressed her hand against his chest.

“What happened was wrong,” Melissa stated loudly. “But trying to kill one another over it won’t change what happened.”

Derek turned away from Scott and the others, following down the hallway where Stiles headed.

John took a few calming breaths, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t prepared to kill Scott on the spot for what he allowed to happen. He calmly lifted a hand, pointing at both Scott and Jackson. “If either of you pull a stunt like that again, I’ll put an end to this now.” He didn’t wait for a response, leaving the men behind as he headed up the villa steps.

John stumbled to a stop when he saw Derek touching Stiles in the hallway.

Stiles drew in sharp, uneven breaths, his hands clinging to Derek’s arms as his fingernails dug into Derek’s skin. His eyes were closed, his forehead pressed against Derek’s.

“Breathe in,” Derek’s voice calmly instructed Stiles. “And breathe out,” he continued.

John noted that Derek’s hands were on Stiles’ shoulders, sure weights to prove that he was there for Stiles. He kept his distance for a moment before coming closer.

Derek managed to get Stiles’ breathing to calm after a while. He lifted his forehead away from Stiles’ to look at the younger man. He wasn’t surprised when he saw John lingering near them.

Stiles blinked through tear stained eyelashes as he opened his eyes again. He leaned against Derek, collapsing forward onto Derek’s chest as he hugged the other man tightly.

“You were brave to do that,” Derek stated, placing a hand on Stiles’ shoulder blades.

“I was stupid for thinking I could help,” Stiles countered in a small voice. He was weak, unable to stop someone from attacking him.

“You help every day,” Derek replied, his eyes looking to John. He knew John wanted to part them, to tell Derek that Stiles was still healing and this could set him back. But at the moment, Derek felt as if he was the only thing keeping Stiles from shattering into pieces.

“I just … ” Stiles’ voice cracked before he could finish.

“We’ll start training you tomorrow,” John stated, pulling Stiles out of his stupor.

Stiles turned his head to look at his father, though he didn’t relinquish his hold on Derek. He was staring at John as if he hadn’t realized his father followed them.

“Derek and I both,” John replied as he looked at Derek.

Derek nodded in agreement.

~*~

“You’re dropping your shield when you swing,” Derek noted after he playfully hit Stiles on the side. He arched his eyebrows at Stiles when he heard him angrily huff.

“Why do I have to have a shield?” Stiles demanded, tossing the weighty item to the side. “You don’t use one,” he pointed out.

Derek tried to hide his smile. “I don’t need one,” he replied.

“And I do?”

“Yes,” Derek plainly answered. “Until you can focus on fighting with a shield, you don’t get to drop it.”

Stiles shook his head, moving to sit on the step as he dropped his sword next to his forgotten shield. “This is much more extensive than I asked for,” he commented as he picked up his cup of water, drinking from it.

Derek followed to sit next to Stiles, stabbing his sword into the dirt beside them. He relaxed against the steps, stretching out as he leaned back on his arms. He looked at Stiles. “You’re doing better than you think.”

“My father said he taught you in weeks,” Stiles countered.

“And I was raised as a warrior my whole life,” Derek corrected Stiles’ assumption. “If I had not been trained for years, I would not have survived the arena the way I had.”

Stiles turned his head, looking at Derek over his shoulder. “You think I’m going to ever get it?”

“I told you, you’re doing better than you think,” Derek answered.

Stiles sighed, looking away from Derek. “Is it true then?” He asked, looking down at his cup.

“What?” Derek asked, watching Stiles’ face for a sign of some sort.

“What the announcers said about you in the arena,” Stiles elaborated, turning his body to face Derek.

Derek grew silent, thinking about the last time he had been in the arena. It was his fight against John.

The announcers of the games away embellished stories, though they had some truth to them.

“ _ Exotic beasts from East of the Rhine, Germanic savages brought to heel by Roman bravery. The children of the High Chieftain of their tribe. The children of the Wolf! _ ”

Derek offered his arm to Stiles, showing him the marred tattoo that laid beneath the mark of the Argent house. “It was a wolf,” he explained. “When a tribal elder’s children come of age, we have the choice of which animal guides us. Ours was a wolf,” he stated.

Stiles reached a hand out to touch Derek’s arm, hesitating at he looked up at the other man.

Derek nodded his permission for Stiles to touch him.

Stiles’ touch was delicate, his fingers gently moving to trace around the tattoo beneath the burn. He looked at Derek. “Your mother was the tribal leader?”

Derek nodded again. “Laura was … she was being trained to succeed my mother.”

Stiles didn’t appear very perplexed by that. “And you?”

“I was trained to be her second,” Derek answered. “It makes it … more difficult not having her now.” He looked up at the sky, taking in the clouds shrouding around the sun. “As if I’m lost without her around to guide my actions.”

“You don’t have plans for after this?” Stiles asked, allowing his hands to slip from Derek’s arm.

“There is no other life for me,” Derek replied. “I’m not a scholar, or a farmer,” he added.

Stiles frowned at that. “You could have a life of freedom.”

“And what is a free life like to a Greek stuck in Rome?” Derek asked Stiles, looking at him once more. He saw the surprise in Stiles’ features. “I’ve heard your mother tongue before,” he answered. “Laura disliked Greeks for their endless words.”

Stiles breathily laughed at that. “My father was a Greek soldier,” he offered. “I was a child when we were enslaved.” He looked down at the steps between his arm and Derek’s leg. “I suppose I remember some of the life of a soldier, but not quite.”

Derek shook his head. “Maybe it’s a blessing.”

Stiles frowned. “You have memories of a home—”

“I have memories of a time and place that no longer exist now, thanks to the Romans,” Derek corrected Stiles. “Sometimes I wish I couldn’t remember it … it would make the pain less.”

Stiles looked at Derek. “You won’t go back to lead them?”

Derek’s features were closed off as he stared out before them, his gaze on the dirt where they practiced earlier. “There is no one left for me to lead,” he hollowly answered.

“I think you could lead us,” Stiles voiced his opinion. He looked at Derek. “You don’t care about personal gain anymore,” he added. “Sometimes it feels like Scott has his own agenda to follow.” He shook his head.

“I would not be free from personal involvement,” Derek corrected Stiles.

Stiles turned to look at Derek, to ask what he meant. He was surprised to find Derek looking back at him. “I ...” He looked down between them. “I’m nothing special.”

“None of us ever feel that way,” Derek replied. “I place blame at my own feet for allowing myself to be attached to someone again.”

Stiles placed his hand over Derek’s, running his thumb over Derek’s knuckles.

“Derek,” Scott’s voice called from around the other side of the villa.

Stiles withdrew his hand from touching Derek, looking up as Scott rounded the corner.

“We’re getting ready to head out,” Scott informed Derek. “There are more patrols of Romans to dispatch.” He departed with almost no other words offered.

Stiles frowned at the reminder of their last encounter with Roman soldiers.

“This time, I go, and you stay,” Derek uttered to Stiles.

Stiles looked at Derek. He nodded, hesitating before he leaned in to press a kiss to Derek’s lips. When they drew apart, he saw the look of surprise on Derek’s face. “For luck,” he offered.

Derek faintly smiled at that, pressing their lips together in another kiss. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

Stiles nodded, hope fluttering around his stomach like a butterfly. He could have this.

They could have this.

~*~

A dream of complete terror had torn Stiles out of his sleep in the dead of night. He screamed himself awake, his limbs flailing as his father tried to hold him.

Melissa had tried to create a few different remedies to help Stiles sleep through the night. They worked for a while, managing to soothe Stiles into a lull, too overcome with sleep to care about his terrors.

Now, Stiles was lucky if he managed to sleep a little more than a few hours a night. It became obvious that the others were growing tired of Stiles waking them up with his screams.

Stiles knew his father pushed to move away from the villa quicker than anticipated, in hopes of helping Stiles. They found an abandoned temple in the foothills of Vesuvius, one that would give them enough space to accommodate their growing numbers.

Stiles accepted his father’s request for him to remain behind when a group of the former gladiators rallied to free another group of slaves from being purchased at the docks. He knew he wouldn’t be much help in the situation, yet it still hurt to admit that he was better off left behind.

Stiles was working on sorting through different items that he knew they would need to settle for the time being. He heard the soft whispers coming from the others, knowing they were speaking about him. He paused, turning his head to look at those talking. He frowned at them when they turned away from him, their chatter only continuing.

A few of the others started to go through the boxes as well, some of them taking out the provisions. If they didn’t keep track of their inventory, there was no telling how soon they would find themselves with empty stores and infighting.

“We need to keep track of it,” Stiles lightly spoke his concern to the women who took multiple jugs of wine. “Lyria, those are the last—”

“We’re not in the villa anymore,” Lyria coldly stated, turning to look at Stiles. “You don’t get special treatment here.”

Stiles took a stumbling step back from her. He never heard one of the others voice such hatred towards him before. “I don’t think that—”

Lyria laughed. “Giving that German your ass may win you favor with him, but we all know what you are,” she bitterly replied, taking a step towards Stiles. “You do nothing to help us—why should you even get a portion of the shares?” She shoved past Stiles, pleased that she made Stiles drop the items in his hands.

A flush of embarrassing shame covered Stiles’ cheeks.

~*~

Stiles sat on the steps against the temple’s pillar as he watched the new arrivals boisterously laugh together. He held onto his cup tightly, his thoughts wondering how they would manage to sustain their growing numbers.

“You’re worried,” John stated.

Stiles looked up at his father.

“I’ve seen that look before,” John noted as he took a seat beside Stiles.

“I’m just trying to think about how we can keep this going,” Stiles offered.

John nodded. “I know,” he answered. “And I’m glad someone is doing the thinking.”

Stiles smiled at that.

John looked back at Stiles once more. “How is your training with Derek?”

Stiles looked up at his father in interest. “You don’t ask about my training with Derek.”

John snorted. “I’m your father, I’m allowed to ask what I want.”

“And I’m allowed to answer what I want,” Stiles smiled in reply. He took pity on his father, drawing in a soft breath as he admitted, “I’m learning.”

John appeared pleased with that.

“He’s teaching me how to avoid being hit, which I think will come in handy,” Stiles explained.

“And after your training?” John asked.

Stiles looked down at his cup. “We talk,” he offered.

“Just talk,” John mused, reaching a hand out to touch the material of Stiles’ overcoated vest.

Stiles was wearing Derek’s overcoat, robes that hung loosely on him but managed to cover nearly his entire torso. He had grown more conscious of the way the slaves regarded his clothing, and found them to be hypocrites. He knew many would recognize the material, unsurprised that his father had noticed it.

Stiles looked at his father. “I kissed him,” he replied, unabashed. “He accepted.”

John was looking back at Stiles. “He didn’t make his intentions known,” he started.

“πᾰτήρ,” Stiles sighed in embarrassment. “We’re adults,” he stated.

“You know I worry about you,” John began.

“Did you make your intentions known to be with Melissa?” Stiles slyly demanded.

John turned a warnful eye on Stiles.

“It’s the same,” Stiles pressed. “Please, I’ll let you know if something happens— but for now … we’re content in each other’s company.”

John nodded. “I’m glad.” He partially laughed at Stiles’ expressed disbelief. “I’ve noticed a difference in you both,” he replied. “Derek is calmer—more focused. And you are actually speaking again. I call it a blessing.”

Stiles smiled at that. He was glad when his father embraced him.

~*~

Stiles kept away from Lyria, avoiding the others who spoke with her in hushed tones. He pretended that they weren’t talking about him wearing Derek’s clothes. They already labeled him a whore, giving his body away in exchange for the benefits of Derek’s standing as one of the generals in their slowly forming army. He wanted to call them fools, knowing that the origin of their venom was nothing but jealousy.

Stiles froze when he heard someone speaking in Germanic about him.

“ _ The pale one with spots, perhaps he will work for entertainment tonight. He has too pert an ass for a fighter, _ ” a deep voice mused with a laugh, coaxing others into laughing with him.

Stiles turned his head a little, seeing the newly freed men and women sitting together as they feasted on what little food their stores had left.

Derek had gone hunting with one of them—Boyd, he had called himself.

Stiles was hoping they’d be back soon.

“ _ They said he fucks all, _ ” the larger man uttered.

“ _ I think he is spoken for, _ ” the woman with long blonde hair replied, her eyes watching Stiles. “ _ I saw the wolf with him earlier. _ ”

“ _ Doesn’t matter if he is for all to enjoy, _ ” the larger man countered.

Stiles pretended he couldn’t understand what they were saying, grabbing the bowl of food he gathered for himself before disappearing quickly. He was grateful when they appeared too distracted by one another to ask after him.

~*~

Derek was surprised when he came back to the temple and there was no sign of Stiles. He tapped his hand on Boyd’s shoulder, a congratulatory gesture for landing the killing shot on the stag. It had been a long time since he hunted with another, finding it brought him forgotten joy to experience it again.

Derek looked around them, seeing the others losing themselves in drink. He walked through the main courtyard of the temple as he surveyed those around him. He paused when he saw Kira sitting with the blonde Germanic woman they had rescued.

“Derek,” Kira laughed as she gestured for him to come closer. “This is Erica, she’s from across the Rhine, like you.” She smiled at Erica. “She helped me with the braids,” she explained.

There were a few small braids in Kira’s hair, the silver rings were visible even in the evening’s light. They were artfully placed to plot out the story they told.

“They look perfect,” Derek replied. His gaze was distracted by the necklace Kira was wearing, having noticed it as the one Laura had purchased with their winnings. He wished he could have teased Laura about it, having known she didn’t get the necklace for herself.

Kira smiled up at Derek, a silent questioning in the arch of her eyebrows when Derek didn’t smile back. “Something bothers you?”

“Where is Stiles?” Derek finally asked.

Kira looked around them, having just noticed that Stiles was absent. She looked at John, seeing that he was sitting with Melissa. “He was here earlier.”

“ _ The pale one? _ ” Erica asked Derek.

Derek nodded, curious how she knew who Stiles was.

“He retired for the evening,” Erica replied, her accent heavier than Derek’s even was. “Ennis likes him,” she added as a caution. She looked at Derek as if she was judging him. “ _ Is he spoken for? _ ”

“ _ Yes, _ ” Derek roughly replied as he left to head towards the rooms. He pushed through the different people, ignoring the other Germans who called him brother and asked for him to join them. He offered them minor apologies and a promise of later.

Small, feminine hands were suddenly against his chest, Derek recognizing the woman they belonged to as one of Harris’ former slaves.

“You’re leaving the celebrations?” She softly questioned.

“I’m looking for someone,” Derek replied, turning to leave her. He was annoyed when her hands slipped beneath his vest, almost cringing at the unwanted touch against his bare skin.

“I could keep you company,” she suggested. “My cup is not spoken for, but it’s yours for the night.”

“Lyria,” Melissa’s voice sharply called the woman’s name, pulling Lyria’s attention from Derek.

Derek took the opportunity to grab her wrists and push her hands away from him. He didn’t care for her apparent hurt nor if she claimed insult. “My cup is spoken for,” he stated as he headed towards the rooms in search of Stiles.

Lyria jealously glared after Derek, knowing that he was searching for Stiles.

~*~

Derek paused when he saw Stiles in his room. He was surprised, thinking he would find Stiles in his own room. He moved to lean against the doorway, eyes watching Stiles as he stitched the vest in his hands. “I worried you vanished,” he stated.

Stiles looked up at Derek, his lips turning into a smile when he saw it was Derek. “I had other things to do besides drink,” he offered, gesturing towards the vest in his lap.

“You borrow robes to only put holes in them?” Derek asked with a smile as he walked into the room, moving to sit on the cot besides Stiles.

Stiles turned his body towards Derek, giving him room to sit close. He looked up at Derek when he heard more boisterous calls from out in the temple’s courtyard. “There are still celebrations you could enjoy.”

“I prefer your company to theirs,” Derek replied.

Stiles smiled at that, reaching a hand out to touch Derek’s hand. He closed the gap between them, pressing their lips together in a kiss.

~*~

Derek started to fall asleep, his head propped against the wall as Stiles lounged between his legs. He felt Stiles turn against his chest, prompting him to open his eyes and look down at Stiles.

Stiles turned his head to look at Derek, offering a small smile. “The hour grows late,” he offered. “I should leave you to sleep,” he added as an afterthought, reluctantly moving from his place against Derek’s chest.

Derek’s hand gently touched Stiles’ hips, his touch slowing Stiles’ movement. “I regret having you leave,” he noted.

“I would stay, but ... ” Stiles’ features fell, his expression solemn as he shook his head.

“I would never expect that of you,” Derek replied.

“I wish to,” Stiles corrected him. “I … I suffer from terrors in my sleep,” he admitted. He looked at Derek. “I would not rob you of sleep the way they do me.”

Derek reached his hand up to cup Stiles’ cheek in his palm. “I wish I could bring you the comfort of a peace of mind.”

Stiles offered a small, fond smile as he kissed Derek. “One day, the memories of my darkest nights will be forgotten. And it will be because of you.”

~*~

Stiles laughed with the others when she saw the spectacle of amicable competition rise between them. He sat in front of Derek on the temple steps, leaning back into Derek’s embrace. He welcomed Derek’s arm wrapped around his waist, feeling safe despite the wayward glances he received from others.

Stiles turned his eyes away when he saw a couple embracing and touching one another. He wished he could quiet the dark memories that overtook his thoughts whenever he embraced Derek in such a manner.

“More wine?” Stiles softly asked as he looked up at Derek, trying to force those thoughts away.

Derek shook his head. “I’m still not used to Romans’ taste in wine.”

Stiles smiled, softly laughing. “Water then,” he answered, moving to stand from Derek’s embrace. He smiled when Derek lightly pulled on the fabric of his vest in a longing gesture.

Stiles ducked past the temple’s columns, heading for the table of food and drink there. He ignored the containers of wine in favor of the water barrel. He filled his cup, placing it on the table for filling Derek’s. He held the cups in his hands as he turned, surprised by one of the others standing between him and the exit. He stared at the man’s lingering gaze, a twist of haunting familiarity churning his stomach. He remembered that look.

“Wine,” the man uttered at Stiles, his accent thick enough to suggest that he had just started to learn the Roman tongue.

Stiles offered a weary smile to suggest amicable conversation. “Oh, no,” he answered, displaying the cups. “Water for now.”

“Wine is for celebrations,” the man pressed. Stiles believed he had been called Ennis, by Erica.

Stiles weakly nodded. “Yes, it often is,” he replied. His gaze looked to where he knew Derek was sitting by the column. “Apologies, but Derek is waiting,” he stated, hurrying to get by the man. He startled when the man put his arm out in front of him.

“Derek,” Ennis gruffly stated. “He’s kin.”

Stiles took a step back when Ennis step towards him.

“Kin shares,” Ennis finished.

Stiles’ trembling hands dropped the cups when Ennis grabbed his arm. He was shaking as he tried to recall what Derek had taught him—it was all suddenly falling apart, memories of his torture at Harris’ hands coming back. He winced when his lower back collided with the table, Ennis’ body caging him in. His hands fell against the table, and attempt to push himself out of the corner he was caught in. His hand fell on the serving blade. He reacted on instinct when Ennis’ hand slipped beneath his robes.

Stiles stabbed the serving knife into Ennis’ stomach, barely reacting when Ennis hit him in response. He fell to the side, his ears ringing from the blow. His thoughts were centered, torn away from memories of too many rough hands touching him when familiar feminine hands cupped his face.

“Stiles, are you alright?” Melissa asked.

Stiles looked over Melissa’s shoulder, seeing Ennis fighting with none other than John. “πᾰτήρ,” he called after him, forcing himself to stand with Melissa’s help.

Everyone was watching the fight unfold, including Derek.

Derek looked perplexed by the turn of events. He held no love for Ennis, but he had not thought John would enter into a pointless fight with the man.

“If my father kills him, the rest will not stay joined to our cause,” Stiles almost yelled at Melissa.

Melissa turned, shouting at John to stop.

John’s guard slipped, losing the upper hand to Ennis.

“Πᾰτήρ!”

Derek turned to look for Stiles when he heard his voice call out for John again.

Stiles looked at Derek, trying to keep his tears from falling.

Derek looked to Melissa then the ground where the shattered shards of their cups were scattered, as well as a blood stained serving blade. He recalled John walking by him, smiling with Melissa following. He smiled back at John when the older man placed a hand on his shoulder, asking where Stiles was.

Derek looked at Stiles’ face, seeing the blood staining Stiles’ lips.

Everything suddenly twisted together to make sense.

And then, it was over.

The shouts for the fight to continue died out as blood stained the ground beneath them.

Derek pulled the sword from Ennis’ throat, turning to face John. He offered his hand to John, pulling the older man to stand on his feet. He turned back to look at the others. “ _ We give you freedom, and you repay it with injury and insult! _ ” He yelled at them. “ _ Any man or woman who forces themselves on the unwilling, is no kin of mine! _ ”

John touched a hand to Derek’s shoulder, a solid gesture of pride.

Derek turned, looking at John briefly before he looked up at Stiles. He walked up the steps, halting when one of the others yelled wolf. He turned to look at the person.

“ _ Any man who killed Ennis, is a man worth following! _ ”

The others who understood the German cheered.

John released a sigh, shaking his head.

Derek nodded, accepting the gesture. He moved back up the steps to see to Stiles.

Stiles pulled away when Derek attempted to touch him. He shook his head, turning to head back to his room.

Derek followed him.

~*~

“I couldn’t defend myself—”

“No one expects you to defend yourself against the mountain of shit that keeps trying to rape you,” Derek firmly countered.

Stiles stared at Derek. He shook his head. “I can’t— this never goes away.”

Derek closed the space between them, reaching a hesitant hand out to touch Stiles’ cheek.

“I wish I could be with you the way the others are with each other,” Stiles confessed as he looked at Derek’s chest. He took the necessary step closer in order to hide his face against Derek. “I fear that will never happen.”

Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles, pressing a soft kiss into his hair. “It never has to,” he offered. “You’ve been nothing but generous in your affections.”

Stiles clung to Derek, wishing he could tear away the memories of the past that still haunted him.

~*~

Melissa was the one who convinced John to give Stiles time alone with Derek. “Sometimes, a parent’s love cannot heal all wounds,” was all Melissa offered before forcing him to turn back to conversing with the others.

It was well past the moon’s prime, John growing weary with sleep, when he finally retired to his room. He stumbled down the hallway with exhaustion guiding his steps. He paused when he saw the glow of a candle’s light coming from within Derek’s room. He took a closer step, curious to know why the younger man was still awake. He released a soft breath when he saw that Stiles was tucked into Derek’s arm as both men slept. He counted himself fortunate that both men were clothed, not knowing if his heart could have handled anything otherwise. He could see the intimacy of the moment, knowing that he was seeing a glimpse at the relationship his son had started.

Stiles looked completely at peace, not the faintest sign of a terror gripping him.

John took a step back, giving them privacy in their sleep. He knew it was the beginning of Stiles now sharing another’s room. And if it brought his son the peace it seemed to, he accepted it as a blessing.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles smiled as he watched Kira practice shooting the bow. He wished he had her determination to practice more. He continued to weave the basket he had been working on, turning his sights towards Erica in order to watch her clean the skin of the last stag Boyd had brought back from an early hunt.

“_ Fucking hell, _ ” Erica cursed as she finally got the pelt stretched across the tanning rack. “ _ Stupid fucking animal. _”

Stiles snorted.

Erica turned to look at Stiles, an arch in her eyebrow as she observed him.

Stiles faintly smiled. “_ I don’t think it cares about your opinion. _”

Erica’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open into a surprised ‘o’ shape. “_ You fucking shit! _” She stated with a laugh before playfully punching Stiles’ arm.

Stiles laughed with her.

“Something funny happen?” Derek questioned as he approached them. He effortlessly leaned close to Stiles, pressing a soft kiss to Stiles’ lips.

Stiles welcomed Derek’s affections, leaning his head back in order to accept Derek’s kiss.

“_ You never said he could speak our tongue, _” Erica stated.

Derek didn’t look surprised. “_ He knows more tongues than most. _” He moved to settled between the two of them, taking up the basket Stiles had finished to examine it as he turned it in his hands.

“And my father knows even more,” Stiles added, reaching over to hand the cloth lining Boyd had given him earlier to Derek, gesturing for him to fit it into the basket as a lining.

Stiles enjoyed sitting with Erica and Derek, finding the moment to be calmer than most days. He trained when he could with Derek, mostly before the sun was mid-sky. He was pleased to forge more bonds with the others, knowing that he couldn’t keep himself closed off forever.

Derek looked up when he heard arguing voices coming from inside the temple’s outer walls. He moved to stand, putting a calming hand on Stiles’ shoulder when the other man made a move to follow. He knew, rationally, that Stiles would follow him despite his attempt to reassure him into staying.

“You said it was too dangerous to go into town,” Scott stated as he silenced Jackson with a hand pressed against his chest, keeping Jackson away from John.

“For too many people, yes,” John answered. “I know the markets, and I know how to keep myself hidden. One older man wandering the markets is inconsequential.”

“And you return with nothing but words,” Jackson accused.

Derek approached the other men, moving to stand beside John. “Did you find out what they’re planning?”

John looked at Derek, offering a small frown in response. “I did,” his gaze looked at Stiles when he saw his son standing in Derek’s shadow. “With the Argent ludus destroyed and the other Roman villas that followed, they are planning on sending a Roman general here.”

Stiles’ expression fell some at the mention of the other Roman villas. “What of Harris’ sons?” He finally pressed to question, ignoring the other looking at him as he focused on his father.

John did not seem surprised by Stiles’ question, having expected it. “They’re in Rome, apparently being cared for by a Roman senator.”

Stiles’ brow pinched together.

“I doubt they’ll ever return to Capua,” John concluded.

“Do they know what happened?” Scott questioned John.

John looked at Scott. “They have inquiries, about the champion of Capua being one of the gladiators missing,” he gestured towards Derek. He hesitated before adding, “And about certain valued slaves that we freed.” He avoided looking at Stiles.

Jackson noticed. “You mean your son,” he stated.

John looked at Jackson, glaring at the younger man. “Among others, yes,” he almost snapped.

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, taking in a deep breath as he fought his panic.

“I fucking knew it,” Jackson uttered in an accusatory tone. “You would lie to us about him.”

Stiles looked at Jackson.

“It’s nothing of concern,” John lowly stated.

“Nothing of concern that there is a price lingering on his head, no doubt,” Jackson countered.

“There is a price lingering on all our heads,” John yelled at Jackson. “And if you weren’t a selfish little shit, you would understand that.”

“What’s happened?” Stiles asked, his tone sharp and demanding. He gave his father a stern look.

Derek turned to look back at Stiles.

John easily evaluated Stiles, watching him carefully. “Roman soldiers were issuing a reward for the capture of a valued body slave, belonging to Adrian Harris. Some senator Argent and Harris were acquainted with.”

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. “How much?”

John hesitated. “It doesn’t matter—”

“How much!” Stiles snapped at his father.

“1,000 denarii,” John replied.

“That’s … impossible,” Jackson uttered in disbelief. “Nobody has that coin.”

“A Roman senator from a wealthy family does,” Melissa corrected him.

Stiles looked at Derek.

“Kira,” Derek called to her, his eyes focused on Stiles. When Kira approached, he finally looked at her before asking, “Do you recall the senator who accompanied Marcus and Chris that night I was brought up to the villa?”

Kira’s eyes widened briefly, having put thoughts of that night out of her mind. “Yes,” she weakly answered, her eyes dashing over to Stiles for a moment. “Kate called him Deucalion. I never heard his wife’s name, though.”

“Did he say anything before Harris arrived with me?” Stiles decidedly asked.

John’s brow creased, trying to follow Stiles’ logic.

“He told Marcus that he was looking forward to seeing Harris’ slave perform again,” Kira softly explained. “He made strange comments, said that it would be nicer to see it done from another perspective.”

Stiles released a heavy breath. “I don’t know a Deucalion—Harris made it a point in telling me who important Romans were when I— when they requested me," he stiffly changed his wording.

“Is it possible he has the money?” Scott asked.

“Doesn’t matter if he does,” Derek snapped at him. “No one will find out, because he is not getting his hands on Stiles.”

“Some Roman who offers up that much coin could get us safe passage across the Mediterranean,” Jackson countered.

“At what cost?” Derek questioned. “You want to dangle someone else’s life in hopes that some Roman will hold true to their word.”

“We could set a trap for him,” Scott suggested.

Derek angrily shook his head. “You’re planning all this without Stiles’ consent—”

“Much like when you fucked him in the villa,” Jackson sneered.

Derek rushed Jackson, almost getting ahold of him if it wasn’t for Stiles getting between them. He let Stiles press a hand against his chest, taking a step backwards.

“_ What _?” John’s voice sharply exclaimed.

A chilling realization hit Stiles—his father knew that Derek hadn’t assaulted him in the baths, but John didn’t know they had performed together for the Romans.

“Πᾰτήρ,” Stiles softly started as he looked over Derek’s shoulder at his father.

“_ You performed—with Derek? _” John demanded.

Derek did not understand John’s words, but recognized his own name being spoken.

Stiles frowned shaking his head.

“You didn’t tell his father?” Jackson almost laughed.

“Shut up,” Melissa snapped at Jackson. She took ahold of John’s arm. “This is a conversation for a calm mind—and even softer words,” she warned in a gentle tone.

John hesitated before nodding, accepting Melissa’s words for the wisdom they were. He gestured for Stiles to follow him, wishing to speak in private.

Stiles stopped Derek from moving. “I’ll speak to him,” he stated. He hesitated before pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Derek’s lips.

~*~

“You didn’t tell me,” John stated the second they were alone.

“Because you would react like this,” Stiles replied.

“I show concern for my son—”

“—You paint Derek to be the worst,” Stiles angrily stated.

“Neither of you are healthy enough to be in a relationship, Stiles,” John chided. “You were forced together, for the pleasure of Romans.”

“I care for him,” Stiles firmly stated.

“And he cares for you, I know that,” John explained. “But you both will be haunted by this.”

"We are fine," Stiles snapped at him.

"You need to speak about this," John cautioned.

"We have," Stiles countered.

"At an appropriate length?" John pressed. He sighed when Stiles did not answer him. "I wish for nothing more than your happiness—both of your happiness."

Stiles grew irritated by his father's words. "I'm no longer a child," he sharply stated. "Harris saw to that."

John visibly flinched at Stiles' words. "υἱός," he softly started, reaching a hand to touch Stiles' shoulder.

Stiles pulled away. "Derek makes me happy," he roughly uttered. "And that is all that matters to us. I don't care what others say. I value him… I love him," he corrected himself.

~*~

Stiles was grateful his father stopped pressing. He didn't hear the words discussed between Jackson and Scott, but he could see the anger in his father's words just from the manner in which he delivered them. He smiled when Derek placed a kiss along the curve of his neck before standing. He curiously looked up at Derek.

"More wine," Derek answered as he took Stiles' cup in addition to his own.

Stiles nodded in agreement, pretending he hadn't noticed that Derek now favored getting him whatever he may need since Ennis.

Stiles was grateful for Erica plopping down next to him, distracting him from the conversation playing out between his father and the others.

"What did you do before?" Erica questioned.

Stiles looked perplexed by her words.

"Derek killed," Erica gestured to said man. "Kira was a servant," she added.

Stiles' eyes looked to Kira, watching the young woman speaking and laughing with some of the younger people they had rescued recently.

"And you?" Erica questioned.

Stiles looked at Erica. "Why ask?"

"People talk," Erica offered. "But I would know the truth, since you are a friend." She wickedly smiled as she added, "And so I can kick the ass of any who speak untrue words."

Stiles forced a small smile. “I was a Roman’s personal slave,” he explained.

“So you were like Kira,” Erica stated.

Stiles shook his head. “No, I … I was a pleasure slave,” he roughly confessed. He looked away from Erica, unsure what her reaction would be. “My body was used by Romans for their own sexual pleasure. My master used my body for favors.” He startled when Erica’s hand touched his shoulder, turning to look at her.

Erica’s brow was furrowed, a murderous glare taking over her features. “_ They are waste. _”

Stiles tried to offer a faint nod of acceptance.

Erica shook her head. “In our motherland, such things are punished,” she explained. “To force yourself on someone is answered with death—your remains uncared for, tossed into our bogs and left to rot, so all in the afterlife know what you did.”

Stiles drew in a soft breath. “It’s a comfort to know that some care … and believe me.”

Erica drew Stiles into a hug. “I’ll tear the tongue out of anyone who speaks such disgust.”

Stiles hugged Erica back, his gaze looking over her shoulder to see Derek.

Derek was delayed when he began to speak to Boyd. He was pleased with their conversation, finding their companionship to ease his troubled mind as of late. He wasn’t surprised when a feminine hand grazed the small of his back. He knew the hand did not belong to Stiles, making the touch unwelcomed.

A twist of jealousy pitted deep in Stiles’ stomach.

The woman acted as if her gestures were innocent in nature when Derek turned a displeased look at her.

Derek was surprised by Stiles’ presence, his nimble body suddenly pressed against his side. He turned to look at him, to welcome him into his conversation with Boyd. He paused, caught off guard by Stiles’ kiss.

Stiles was happy when Derek accepted his kiss, his hands cupping Derek’s face as he guided their lips together.

Derek wordlessly reached his hand out to set one of the cups down, pleased that Boyd took it from his hold without necessary instruction. He reached his free hand up to run his fingers through Stiles’ hair, a firm grip pulling Stiles even closer as he wrapped his arms around him.

Stiles pleasantly fell against Derek’s chest. He pulled back from their kiss, his lips hovering close to Derek’s. “Should we retire to our bed,” he pondered, his voice softly questioning as his expression remained open and vulnerable to Derek’s response.

Derek kissed Stiles again, easily turning them towards the hall that lead towards their room.

Boyd easily took the second drink from Derek’s hand before the other man could drop it.

~*~

Derek’s hands lingered around the ties holding Stiles’ robes in place. He allowed his hands to trace along the fabric, fingers dipping below them to caress the swell of Stiles’ ass. His hands gripped just at the curve of Stiles’ thighs, lifting him up to have their bodies meet part way.

Stiles softly moaned, leaning into Derek even more as he pressed onto his tiptoes. His hands moving to slip beneath Derek’s clothes. His heart skipped a beat when he finally touched Derek’s hardening cock. He was lost in their kisses, completely startled when he was pressed against the wall of their bedroom.

Thoughts of being manhandled by Romans threatened to surface.

Stiles kissed Derek more, his free hand touching Derek’s beard as a reminder that it couldn’t be a Roman touching him now. He trembled when Derek’s body caged in against his. His hand slipped from beneath Derek’s clothes, pressing against Derek’s abdomen as he tried to steady himself.

Derek’s leg slot between Stiles’ legs, giving him much needed leverage. He kissed along Stiles’ jaw, mouth ducking down to nip at Stiles’ collarbone.

Stiles felt pinned, as if there was no way for him to get out. He knew it was Derek’s mouth on him, and how much he wanted Derek to not stop. But there was a twisting knot of disgust gathering in his stomach as he thought about how many others had done this to him against his will.

Derek would never be the first.

Stiles was going to vomit. “Stop— stop!”

Derek immediately pulled back from Stiles, putting space between them in an attempt to accommodate Stiles’ outburst.

Stiles pressed his hands to his face, digging the pads of his palms into his eyes in an attempt to get the tears to stop. The ghosts of the past still haunted Stiles’ every moment, plaguing his every move and churning his thoughts of desire into torments of the past.

“Stiles,” Derek softly said his name, wanting to reach a hand out and comfort him, but feared his touch would be ill received.

“I can’t—” Stiles sharply uttered, anger at himself growing deeper.

“Can’t what?” Derek questioned.

“I can’t do this,” Stiles sobbed, his hands falling away from his face as he finally looked at Derek. “I’m a shadow of myself, even now when I want more.”

Derek was quiet for a moment. “I would never presume to make you stay with me,” he offered, trying to make Stiles’ decision easier.

Stiles shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he stated in frustration. He looked at Derek. “You could have anyone here,” he explained. “I’ve seen you spurning their advances, but you could have those pleasures—”

“Do you think so little of me that you believe I only wish to use you for pleasure?” Derek demanded, his hurt turning to anger when he thought of it.

“I cannot be with you the way the others could,” Stiles stated.

“And I said I didn’t care about that,” Derek replied. “You seem to, though,” he added in a softer tone.

Stiles was silent for a moment.

“Stiles—”

“I’ve had more hands on me, than lives lost in the arena,” Stiles hollowly stated. He looked up at Derek. “And their touch still haunts me.”

Derek frowned, not knowing how he could help Stiles to get beyond such haunted moments.

Stiles stood, anger and embarrassment forcing his movement.

“If I could break the hands of those that wronged you, I would,” Derek stated, relieved that Stiles stopped walking away. “I would tear the heart out of any person that would cause you harm.” Stiles turned to look at Derek. “I would fight shades for you, if the gods allowed it. But all I am capable of is vowing to never let another hand touch you without your permission.”

Stiles walked over to Derek, reaching a hand out to cup Derek’s face in the palm of his hand. “I know you see me for more than the shadow I am now,” he softly stated. “I pale in comparison to the man I could have been.”

Derek shook his head, pressing into Stiles’ touch. “My affections only grow for you—for who you are now. The Romans stole a future from you, but I would give you mine to share now.”

Stiles drew close to Derek.

“After the first few years, I realized that they admired me for my body,” he started. “They wanted my body because it pleased them to have it. But I grew accustomed to that, because they couldn't _ have me _.” He drew in a soft breath as he caressed the curve of Derek’s cheek. “Our bodies are just clay, waiting to crumble and return to the earth the day we go to Hades. But my heart?"—He took Derek’s hand, moving to place it over his chest—"That belongs to you.”

Stiles pulled Derek into a kiss, wishing he could erase the lingering doubt in his mind that he would ever truly be free from it all.

~*~

“Use me as bait then,” Stiles stated loud enough to interrupt the arguing. He wasn’t surprised when he felt Derek still beside him.

John looked over at Stiles, an expression of complete displeasure taking over his features. “You must be insane to think I’d allow that.”

“We don’t have the coin,” Stiles forcefully stated.

Derek gently took Stiles’ hand. “There has to be another way.”

Stiles looked at Derek. “If we’re to get away from Rome’s hold, we have to get on those ships.”

Derek frowned, knowing that Stiles was right despite it all.

Stiles looked at his father. “If I’m what he wants, he’ll be willing to send the coin.”

“And then what about you?” John sharply demanded.

“We can lay a trap,” Stiles rationalized. “I want to help.”

Derek threaded his fingers with Stiles’ own, trying to comfort his worries.

“With that coin, we could purchase safe passage,” Scott added in an attempt to sway John.

“Besides, I have a plan,” Stiles started, gaining his father’s attention. “I have a plan.”

~*~

Stiles found himself abandoned in one of the Roman’s tents. His hands were bond behind his back, making it impossible for him to brace himself as he was tossed towards the fine fur pelt covering the floor. He turned on his side, trying to sit up better. He looked at the Roman guards, unsurprised that the men were ignoring him. He watched them leave the tent, finding himself alone now. He twisted his hands together, an attempt to get his wrists free.

Stiles startled when an unknown voice spoke, “That’s pointless, really.” He turned to look at the owner of the voice.

The Roman was older than the guards who brought Stiles into his tent. He wore rich fabrics, robes that Stiles noticed to hold a great deal of value. He moved to pour wine into a finely crafted glass, his back towards Stiles as he busied himself.

Stiles sat up right, twisting his hands again as he managed to get the rope to move some. He stopped his movements when the Roman turned to him, looking up at the man as he approached him. He shifted his body, backing away from the man as he reached for him.

“Easy,” the Roman instructed Stiles as he caught Stiles’ chin in his free hand.

Stiles pulled back when the Roman tipped the rim of the glass against his lips.

The Roman appeared amused. “You’ll grow sick if you don’t drink.” He didn’t wait for Stiles to accept the gesture, his free hand moving to clasp at Stiles’ neck, forcing his head back. He tipped the glass forward, another forceful gesture to get Stiles’ lips to part.

Stiles unwillingly swallowed the water, almost choking on it as it filled his mouth. He sputtered some when the Roman withdrew his hands. He felt the man’s hand linger on his chin, wiping the droplets of water away.

“I paid a lot of money for you,” the Roman concluded as he looked over Stiles.

Stiles looked up at the man.

“Do you know my name?”

Stiles hesitated. “Deucalion,” he uttered.

“Do you know anything else?”

Stiles looked away from the man, his eyes wandering the tent. It looked like they were alone, but he knew soldiers patrolled throughout the camp. “Rome sent you to end the rebellion,” he finally stated, looking at Deucalion.

Deucalion scoffed as he moved to stand. “Rebellion,” he thoughtfully uttered the word. “More like a lack of obedience.”

Stiles looked at Deucalion, watching the man toss aside the cup with little care. He shifted his weight again, pausing when Deucalion looked at him.

“You can keep struggling until you get them off, or just ask,” Deucalion stated as he leaned against the desk behind him, crossing his arms over his chest as he observed Stiles.

Stiles hesitated. “If I beg, you mean.” He was startled when Deucalion laughed.

“You’re in no position to not beg,” Deucalion replied. “If I wanted, I could have you begging as much as I wanted.”

Stiles felt his cheeks heat at the obvious threat. He tried to calm himself, knowing what had to be done. “You paid a great deal for me,” he countered. “Would that not be coin wasted.”

“No,” Deucalion replied. “It would be money well spent.”

Stiles’ stomach twisted, something about the man’s voice familiar and disturbing.

“You don’t remember me,” Deucalion simply stated, as if he already knew Stiles’ thoughts. “I suppose that was the point, though—a night of pleasure and anonymity, Harris promised.”

Stiles remembered one night, when he had been bathed and skin painted in decorative white, the Bacchus mask being slipped over his face. It was the same night Melissa gave him the medicine that made it disappear from memory.

_ You’re to pleasure a powerful man, that is all you need to know._

“You wore the mask of Bacchus,” the Roman continued. “It really felt like fucking a god.”

Stiles cursed that night, as he did with many. He had often been given the mask of Apollo or Mercury, but never Bacchus. Part of him prayed that the god would take offense and drive his masters mad to the point that his escape would be simple. Instead, his body was numbed, his mind clouded with whatever remedy Melissa had been able to give him to ease his pains.

The Roman had worn the mask of Saturn. And his callous cruelty matched the god’s.

Stiles had prayed to Bacchus that night, offering his thanks for the memories fading, and for dulling the pain he had suffered.

It was the last mask he had worn at Harris’ order.

“You wore the mask of Saturn,” Stiles finally spoke, knowing the man was watching for him to remember.

“Harris had spoke of your stamina,” Deucalion commented, as if he hadn’t heard Stiles. “You passed out, limp, not even after an hour.”

Stiles remembered the Roman pulling out of him, unknown relief overcoming him when he was deposited down on the bed. He was given a moment’s peace. He had started to fall asleep, his mind foggy and eyes exhausted, when the Roman had flipped him over. He remembered the mask being pulling from his face despite his attempt to keep it in place. He was weaker than normal, his hands flying up to push at the Roman. He was too weakened to do a thing when the Roman pinned his hands above his head. He lulled as the Roman entered him again, a soft whine cracking from his throat was the only indication he felt anything. He remembered his limbs going limp, his eyes glazing over with tears as he offered a silent prayer for the gods to make it stop.

“I was disappointed with that,” the Roman mused. “And then I witnessed you performing with that animal. I paid good money and offered influence to that weasel, and a slave got a better fuck out of you than I did.”

Stiles looked away from Deucalion.

“I suppose this uprising has given some benefit,” Deucalion commented as he moved down to kneel in front of Stiles. He snatched a rough hold on Stiles’ chin, keeping a firm grip as he forced the younger man to look at him. “Rome wants all of you to be made an example of.”

Stiles remained still, refusing to play anything into the Roman’s hand.

“But I think since I’ve paid quite a bit of denarii for you, I’ll get to enjoy you first.” A cruel smile pulled at Deucalion’s lips as he ran his free hand over Stiles’ features, inspecting him at a closer angle now.

Stiles spit in Deucalion’s face, uncaring when the man hit him across the face.

“One savage Germanic cock in you, and you’re no longer obedient,” Deucalion noted. “You were supposed to be something special, but you just laid there after a while, like a doll.”

Stiles’ stomach started to churn and sour at the thought.

“Harris promised you’d be better the next time,” Deucalion commented. “But the next time, I watched you moan like a whore as that barbaric dog fucked you.”

Stiles didn’t hesitate to move once he freed his hand. He stood up, not caring if it was too soon, knowing what would happen if he didn’t get out of the tent. He tripped, his legs weak and trembling like a newborn colt. He fell sideways, disrupting the serving tray as he grabbed for something to steady himself. His vision was hazy, his mind spinning with the rush of heat pulsing through his body.

The air felt as if it thickened suddenly, its barest caress like a series of heavy kisses against his skin. The smell of rose water permeated from the basin he had managed to tip over by accident.

His senses were on fire, overloading on the smallest touch.

“It will take the opium a little longer to take full effect,” Deucalion’s voice informed Stiles.

Stiles swatted his hand out at the man when Deucalion gripped his arm tightly. He stumbled, falling into Deucalion despite his attempt to get away. A spike of arousal shot through him, churning his stomach with even more disgust. His limbs weakly folded, his whole body crumpling.

“Calm down,” Deucalion chided Stiles as he lifted him with ease, placing him down on the bed.

Stiles flailed his arm out, hitting away Deucalion’s outstretched hand. “Don’t— don’t touch me,” he slurred, his breath now coming in heavy pants as he tried to regain control of his senses.

“You’ll beg for it,” Deucalion simply replied. “I’ll have you trained as a bed slave before long,” he added as an afterthought. “You’ll be better than before—you’ll grow to love it.”

Stiles couldn’t stop the cruel laughter that bubbled up. He turned his head to look at Deucalion, his vision still good enough to see the man. “Harris tried that,” he snapped at Deucalion. “I killed him.”

Deucalion made a soft noise of disapproval at Stiles’ words. “That’s … unfortunate. Though there are benefits to having you tied up to prevent such reoccurrences. You’ll grow to want it—like the others.”

Stiles struggled when Deucalion took ahold of his arms. “I never begged Harris— I’ll never beg you!” He loudly shouted at Deucalion as his whole world started to spin around. “_ Never! My body is clay, my heart fire! I will never want you! _” He cursed at Deucalion in Germanic, loud enough for others in the camps to hear.

Stiles sagged, his fight leaving him when he was suddenly left alone on the bed. His body was sprawled out on the cot, his limbs useless as he weakly turned his head to look at what was happening.

There were two Roman guards standing above Deucalion’s unconscious body. One moved to withdraw his sword, intent on ending the Roman’s life.

“Don’t,” an authoritative voice commanded the other one, one of the soldiers grabbing the other’s arm to stop him. “They’ll send someone worse,” he explained. “Let him live knowing he was outwitted by former slaves. We have his coin. He is defeated.”

“Πᾰτήρ,” Stiles weakly called, recognizing his father’s voice.

The Roman soldier removed his helmet, revealing John as he moved to kneel beside Stiles. “It’s okay,” he gently started.

Stiles shook his head when his father tried to hush him. “I … he … I can’t breathe,” he struggled to explain.

“Opium,” Derek’s voice stated in distaste.

John turned to look at Derek, seeing the younger man looking at the serving table.

Derek looked at John. “He gave him opium to cloud his mind,” he gruffly stated, taking the necessary steps towards John and Stiles. He was gentle in his touch as he cradled Stiles’ face in his hands. “We’ll get you out of here—back to the temple.”

Stiles barely nodded, tears of frustration burning his eyes. His arms were heavy weights as he tried to reach for Derek.

Derek was quick in his movements, picking Stiles up with ease as he cradled him against his chest. He looked at John. “We need to get him to Melissa,” he offered.

John nodded, reaching a hand out to brush Stiles’ sweaty hair from his forehead. “I’ll lead the way.”

Stiles closed his eyes, unsure if he could keep them open a second longer. The last thing he remembered was the motions of Derek carrying him, his body lighting up with every jostle.

~*~

“He gave him a recreational dose,” Melissa explained to them, grabbing John’s arm to get the man to stop pacing. “He’ll be fine in a few hours, once it is out of his system.”

“Why drug him?” John demanded.

Melissa hesitated, briefly turning her gaze towards Stiles. “Romans use opium for … pleasure.”

A muscle in John’s jaw ticked.

“He thought Stiles would beg him for sex,” Derek finally spoke. His gaze had yet to leave Stiles, watching as Stiles trembled and murmured broken words through the fever dream.

“Perhaps I should have let you kill the man,” John cursed, turning away from Melissa.

Derek thought of Stiles’ words, the ones he yelled out in the tent before they barged in. “Why would Deucalion go to the effort?” He softly asked Melissa, his gaze finally turning away from Stiles’ sleeping form.

Melissa looked at Derek, her voice absent her pitiful gaze.

It confirmed that she knew more.

“Melissa,” John gently started, turning towards her.

“I did what I could, John,” Melissa sighed, looking at the man. “I patched him up, every time after—” She shook her head. “He was having nightmares from it.”

“From Harris?” John darkly questioned.

“From what Harris allowed others to do,” Melissa sharply corrected him. Her gaze looked at Derek. “You weren’t supposed to perform with him that night,” she stated. “That Roman pig gave Harris coin and promises to elevate his sons if he got another night with Stiles.”

“Another?” John questioned, taking a step towards Melissa.

“Stiles didn’t know who he was,” Melissa explained. “Harris made him wear masks the nights he performed in their villa.”

John’s hands tightened into fists, remembering how pale Stiles had been when they found those infernal masks. “He raped Stiles already.”

“I gave Stiles a mixture that numbed his senses that night,” Melissa continued, looking down at her hands as she wrung them together. “He said he barely remembered it—that he was joyful Dionysus granted him that blessing.” She looked up at John. “Deucalion was furious, said he was … limp.”

Derek’s features twisted, darkening as regret gripped his heart tightly—he should have killed the Roman.

“Deucalion thought he was going to be afforded a private room at Chris’ offering the night you met,” Melissa stated as she looked at Derek. “But Harris wanted to get back at Kate.”

Derek visibly flinched at the mention of Kate.

“Why would forcing Stiles to perform with Derek—” John stopped, recalling what Derek had confided in him. He bit off a low curse in Greek. “I’m telling Scott we’re making a deal for safe passage with those pirates—the sooner the better,” he gruffly stated, turning to exit the room. He hesitated as he looked back at Stiles. He turned his gaze to Derek. “You’ll watch over him,” he more stated than asked.

Derek nodded. “Always.”

John reached a hand up, gently clasping Derek’s shoulder in a warm gesture. He gently squeezed Derek’s shoulder before departing, it being the best he could do in the absence of being able to form words.

“Make sure he keeps drinking water when he can,” Melissa softly instructed Derek. She offered a small, hopeful smile to Derek before following after John.

Derek turned his attentions back to Stiles, reaching his hand out to hold onto Stiles’ own. He softly smiled when Stiles tightened his hold in response. He gently lifted Stiles’ hand to his lips, pressing a kiss into the soft curve of Stiles’ palm.

“Derek,” Stiles softly uttered, his eyes barely opening to look at Derek.

Derek leaned forward, gently hushing Stiles’ attempts to speak through the fever. “You’ll be alright in a few hours,” he explained.

Stiles drew in a shaky breath. “I couldn’t fight him ...”

Derek gently shook his head. “No, you did,” he answered. “_ Your body is clay, and your heart is fire _ ,” he spoke the German words Stiles had yelled in the tent. “Your soul is fire that burns brighter than any hearth. You fought all of them, _ beloved. _And you won.”

Stiles weakly smiled at Derek’s words. “Please,” he softly asked. “Kiss me, so I have pleasant dreams.”

Derek smiled at that, leaning forward to press a kiss to Stiles’ lips. “Sleep, and I’ll be here when you awake.”

Stiles closed his eyes, aware of the small smile that took over his lips as he thought of waking up in Derek’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 will be a bit of a flash forward ... and yes, I'll give you happy, loving, beautiful sexy times.
> 
> Thoughts? Concerns?
> 
> Also, I'm not against a certain SOMEONE, who absolutely loves and adores Kira, drawing Kira with Laura's silver circlets in her hair. (rudyredhoodling, I'm calling you out if you couldn't tell).


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